


memento mori

by Eirian14



Series: Don’t we all just become someone else? [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: ANGST FOR THE ANGST GODS, Angst, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Author is a Technoblade Apologist (Video Blogging RPF), Author is a TommyInnit Apologist (Video Blogging RPF), BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Character Death, Chat is Techno's friend, Dadza, Dream Smp, Dream Team SMP Spoilers, Drug Use, Drugs, Ever wondered why Techno hears voices and why he's good at fighting, Everyone Needs A Hug, Experimentation, Fighting, Gen, I swear the fic gets better as you go on, Injury, Injury Recovery, Little Victories prequel, Pain, Panic Attacks, Sad, Sad Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Sleepy Bois Inc Angst, Sleepy Bois Inc as Family, Swordfighting, Tags Are Hard, Tags Contain Spoilers, Tags May Change, Techno gets kidnapped as a kid and really screwed up, Techno is in deep shit, Techno isn't a hybrid but he basically becomes one by the end, Technoblade Angst (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade Hears Voices (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade Origin Story, Technoblade never dies so you'll be FINE, Technoblade-centric (Video Blogging RPF), The voices they demand blood, This is a lot of Tags, Twins Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, Violence, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade are Siblings, arena fighting, but I still hope you cry <3, chat, enjoy this angst filled angst angst, okay im done with tags, please read carefully if ur not comfy with a lot of this, please stick with me :D, sbi, since it's a prequel obviously it ends kinda happy, sleepy bois inc - Freeform, there's a lot of injury and fighting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:54:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29325042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eirian14/pseuds/Eirian14
Summary: (ORIGIN STORY OF THE TECHNOBLADE IN MY OTHER FIC, LITTLE VICTORIES!!!)As he looked at the filthy ceiling, he sighed and prepared to repeat his mantra of everything that should keep him going, then stopped himself. There was no point. His family would never find him, and he couldn’t escape this living hell on his own. A hopeless feeling creeped into his chest. The harsh ringing in his ears faded to silence.That’s when he noticed the first voice had started talking.Hello, Technoblade.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream & Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Toby Smith | Tubbo & Technoblade & TommyInnit, Toby Smith | Tubbo & Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & Phil Watson, TommyInnit & Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson
Series: Don’t we all just become someone else? [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2154153
Comments: 260
Kudos: 475





	1. The Universe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The royal family of the Antarctic Empire is the universe. (INTRO CHAPTER IT GETS BETTER I SWEAR BEAR WITH ME) (IF YOU WANT TO SKIP ALL THE BACKSTORY AND WHATEVER GO TO CHAPTER 3 FOR THE ACTION AND ANGST BUT I SWEAR IT GETS SO MUCH BETTERRR)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HAD A SNOW DAY TODAY AND DIDN'T HAVE TO GO TO SCHOOL.  
> I WAS SO HAPPY I DECIDED TO START WRITING A TECHNOBLADE ORIGIN STORY FULL OF ANGST AND SUFFERING >:D
> 
> So, I'm just gonna say it now: If you aren't comfortable with injury, blood, fighting, pain, and violence, this is not the fic for you. It's a fic about how Technoblade became death's herald. What do you expect?

Techno’s family was a patchwork of the universe.

Wilbur was the silver moon. Wilbur was the one everyone could get along with and everyone naturally turned to. He picked up every subject in their tutoring with little effort, a sharp contrast to the hours upon hours of studying Techno had to do. When he talked, people were drawn in to that melodic voice, and were utterly enchanted when he played music. Techno’s voice was monotone and quiet in comparison. Though they were identical (both with dark brown hair and glasses and the same face shape), you could tell instantly who was who by the way they carried themselves. Wil was always easygoing, relaxed, amicable. Technoblade’s posture was sharp and his gaze sharper. The two were attached at the hip; when Techno got uncomfortable around someone, Wil would spin some excuse for them to exit the conversation. Techno helped Wilbur with the lyrics for his songs and Wilbur taught him to play basic chords. Wilbur was Techno’s best friend and Techno was Wilbur’s. His twin brought excitement to his life and pushed him out of his comfort zone. After all, the earth needs the moon to create the tides.

Wilbur could work with anything, and as they got older the two spent more time apart. When his twin wasn’t at his side, Techno felt like he was lacking something essential.

The only time Technoblade ever asked Philza about not being as likable as Wilbur, Phil told him with a pat on the head that his intimidation was just an early sign he’d be a great king. Even though he spent the most time with their father, Techno still never really felt heard.

Tommy was the beaming sun. Despite looking the most like Phil, Tommy was certainly the _least_ like him in character. Where their father had a patience as endless as the stars, Tommy was as impatient and immediate as the burning touch of sunlight. Where Phil used cold looks and a quiet voice to demand attention; Tommy used blazing glares and ear-shattering shouts. Ever since he learned to walk, he excelled in demanding attention and causing trouble.

When Tommy was born, people had argued that the wings were a sign from the gods that Tommy was meant to be king. That opinion soon changed after Tommy at just four years old toddled into a military meeting and accidentally shattered several priceless vases, while also managing to throw a tiny punch into the face of one of the ministers of defense. Tommy was just too bright to be ignored.

Tommy idolized Techno. Sometimes his littlest brother, at barely seven years old, would trail after him into the training yard, eyes aglow with wonder as he watched his big brother learn the art of the blade. When Techno would screw up, he’d laugh from the sidelines, puffing out his wings and proclaiming that he could’ve done better. Techno marveled at the way he joked and poked fun at the world and it did nothing but smile back.

Where Techno liked minding his own business and keeping to himself, Tommy would insert himself into everything by being loud and completely abrasive. Tommy wasn’t invited to a dinner party because he was _seven?_ He’d show up an hour in with his newest arts and crafts project. He couldn’t want to wait for Wilbur’s royal portrait to be over for Wil to play him a song? The artist pained Wilbur strumming his guitar while Tommy stared at him with adoring eyes. Tommy started molting for the first time? No one complained as he left trails of dusky red plumage as he raced the halls of the castle.

Because somehow, despite inciting chaos wherever he went, Tommy was easily cherished and lovable. He went outside and chirped at the birds and left little gifts for the servants secretly at night. He laughed in the happiest way a laugh could be. Tommy never had to prove anything to anyone, and he never had to be anyone except himself. But that was fine; he was third in line for the throne and would never have to carry the weight of the empire like Technoblade did.

Philza was all of the stars in the sky. Ever patient, ever present, even when they couldn’t see him. He was always there to stop a squabble or teach them a random fact or tell them wild adventures about his past. His eyes shimmered with the weight of a thousand years and the air of wild voyages at the same time. Techno trailed him like he had a leash, taking notes at important meetings, watching diplomatic negotiations occur, seeing how Philza could bend a friendly dinner with a foreign diplomat to the benefit of the empire. He was everything Techno wanted to be.

But Phil also had that far-away gaze that looked for something more. His quiet nature was inflicted by watching desolation and destruction firsthand. He’d been utterly alone in the world and knew what it was to suffer. He never talked about it to any of the boys, but Techno could see the overprotectiveness in the way their father stayed in the boys’ room long after they fell asleep when reading them stories, the way he wanted to give them a life of peace. Philza was a constellation and a story Techno would spend his life trying to read.

If his family was full of celestial bodies, Techno supposed that would make him the Earth itself. Reliable, responsible, grounded. He could only look up into the sky and see the blaze of the sun and calmness of the moon and guidance of the stars and hope to be like that one day. Technoblade never complained, never stepped the wrong way, never screwed up. Not when he fought with weapons, not when he carried a conversation, not even when he braided his hair (the one distinguishable difference between him and Wil). He saw the weight on the stars and the shadows he could keep from the sun and the moon and took them on himself. And his pursuit of perfection was noticed, because he got to do everything with Phil and get the best trainers and get access to the wisest books in all the land.

Since he was given everything, he’d have to carry it all on his own.

_Atlas does not falter when he shoulders the burden of the sky._

Maybe it was that weight he’d put on himself that separated him from his family in the first place. Had he not tried to keep his worries and problems to himself, maybe he wouldn’t have stepped outside his and Wilbur’s birthday celebration and gotten kidnapped. Maybe he wouldn’t have been carted off to the Nether and experimented on and ripped into the very worst of what he was. Maybe he wouldn’t have turned into a monster.

The earth cannot complain to the cosmos it cannot reach. It can only let them rest on its shoulders and watch them soar high above.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE TECHNO ORIGIN PART WILL COME VERY VERY SOON I PROMISE  
> I JUST HAD TO GET THIS INTRO BIT OUT SO I COULD ESTABLISH THE SBI DYNAMIC AND BACKSTORY <3 
> 
> THIS IS SUPER SHORT; THE NEXT CHAPTER WILL BE UP TOMORROW AND ANGST WILL ENSUE I PROMISE JUST BEAR WITH ME 
> 
> THE LAST FEW LINES ARE A PREDICTION OF WHAT IS TO COME!!! PLEASE READ THE NEXT CHAPTER IT GETS BETTERRRR


	2. The Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Techno tries his best to keep problems from happening. Things go wrong at his and Wilbur's 15th birthday party, and he gets himself kidnapped in the middle of a forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I SWEAR I KNOW THE FIRST CHAPTER WAS BORING BUT HERE'S THE ACTION 
> 
> LEAVE KUDOS AND COMMENTS IF YOU ENJOY <3
> 
> ANGST FOR THE ANGST GODS
> 
> TW: Swearing, fighting, injury, panic attack, experimentation (a little)

Technoblade had always been good at fighting.

Each of the three sons of Philza Minecraft were blessed with one of his gifts: Wilbur got the elegant words and beautiful voice, Tommy got the feathers that glinted like the sun on his back, and Techno got the skill with swords and strategy. Each a gift that would send them beyond the destinies of normal people; each had a true standout.

The only problem with being good at fighting was that Techno could never let it go. He wasn’t restless, no, but if he wasn’t actively doing _something_ to better himself, whether that be reading or practicing, he felt incomplete. The moment he realized sword technique and exercises came easily to him, he was determined to be _the best_ of the best _._ When he wasn’t caught up in the duties of being the crown prince of the Antarctic Empire, he was in the training yard, sparring with guards. Even at age twelve, he was excellent at what he did.

But excellence divides. The three sons of the king were never able to fit in with the kids of lords and ladies right. Wilbur liked being in the middle of everything too much, Techno was too quiet and didn’t like the faux company, and Tommy was _far_ too loud for the weak children of nobles. So it was that the three stuck together; you could never find one of them without another close behind. But another line was always cast between him and his brothers; as the elder of his twin, Wilbur, he was destined for the throne.

That was why at his very own fifteenth birthday party Techno found himself hung back from the other guests, instead standing sentinel next to his father’s throne. Guests milled about and music played cheerfully in the background, amplified through redstone contraptions. Blue and white balloons floated aimlessly against the ceiling of the enormous tent. Presents were piled in a mountain next to a newly pained portrait of the twins, the two sitting regally in elegant chairs. Wilbur wore a silver circlet. Techno wore a small gold crown.

Attendees milled by to wish Techno a happy birthday briefly before crossing to the other side of the tent, where vibrant song spilled from his twin. His words coated the air like honey, enchanting _literally everyone_ who passed by. As the kids of a duke Techno knew well barely spent a minute with him before rushing over to his twin, Technoblade suppressed a huff. How was it that Wilbur got along so easily with _everyone_ when Techno couldn’t even hold a single conversation?

Even Phil was milling about the guests, patting old friends on the back and giving out hugs. Techno stood awkwardly next to the throne, praying someone would come over so he didn’t look like a total loser in comparison to Wil.

Like the gods had heard his plea, a moment later a small golden head bobbed through the crowd and hurtled his way in a whirl of red feathers. The down plumage floated up into the air like flames as Tommy stumbled to a stop, promptly throwing his arms around Techno’s waist and nearly knocking them both over.

“ _Techie!_ Big birthday man!” Tommy laughed, still holding Techno in a hug. He tried to shrug his baby brother off. “Tommy, it’s not dignified to smash into people like that, ya nerd.” Tommy rolled his eyes, finally releasing Techno from his hug and attempting to hold his wings in the kingly way Phil did when he wanted to be impressive. The blonde, however, was not kingly nor impressive. Techno suppressed a laugh. “You look constipated.”

“I do _not!_ Take that back, dickhead!”

The crown prince cringed. “Tommy, you know dad doesn’t like you using language like that at formal events.” Tommy snorted, but shut his mouth. He was wearing a dark blue outfit with tiny shoulder pads and a shining black crown that stood out starkly against his blonde curls. Phil _definitely_ picked that outfit for him, because Tommy had wretched fashion taste.

Tommy picked at his feathers. “Watcha doing all by yourself, Tech? Isn’t this, like, your own party?” Techno looked away. “I just felt like standin’ over here, that’s all.”

His brother frowned at him, narrowing those electric blue eyes. “That’s stupid. Wanna come try the cakes with me at the dessert table?”

“It’s not time to eat yet.”

“So?”

“So it’s not polite to go steal snacks. It’s not your party.”

After an irritated beat, Tommy flashed him a mischievous grin, then dove away, slipping between people’s legs in a blur. Techno groaned, abandoning his post beside the throne. He followed the little prince’s tail, apologizing to anyone he bumped into on his way. When he finally made his way across the tent to where the buffet lay for later, Tommy was perched on a chair, balancing precariously as he made to snatch a lemon cake off the top of a brilliant display of treats. His little wings flapped as he tried to keep his balance, blowing napkins into the air like giant snowflakes.

As he got closer, Techno could tell Tommy was going to fall forward or fall backward as he stood on his tip-toes. Two things crossed his mind. One, Tommy might get hurt. Two, If Tommy fell into the table, all the food would be ruined, the party would stop, Phil would be embarrassed, Wilbur upset that the melody of the party he so expertly conducted had interrupted, and Tommy would have ruined his outfit.

He felt that strange, unprovoked weight and responsibility settle on his shoulders for no real reason, and made a decision. With his warrior’s swiftness, Techno slid under the dessert table, and as he crossed to the other side his reflexes swept in and he kicked the chair out from under Tommy. As he lost momentum, he gracefully twisted and stood without a hitch. He released a shaky breath. Problem solved.

Well, not really. The chair legs rotated to the side and Tommy let out a surprised yelp, his feathers flapping wildly as he went airborne for a split second, and Tommy came crashing down on top of the chair, landing on his arm awkwardly and the metal on the chair legs scraping his cheek. His head hit the floor of the tent with a _thud_.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire, isn’t that what they said?

While the crash hadn’t been as big and noticeable as it would have been if it were the entire food display coming down, it still drew the attention of several people nearby. The conversation on that side of the tent quieted, and concerned eyes peeked through the crowd. Techno blinked, and realized what he did.  
  
Tommy was on the ground, hyperventilating and seconds away from bursting into sobs. He had a scratch on the side of his cheek and a bruise was blooming on his temple. He clutched his right arm delicately, tears flowing down his face. He looked up at Techno with heartbroken eyes. The setting sun that had been flowing through the gaps in the tent dipped below the horizon, dimming the light in the tent.

The wailing started. On the opposite end of the tent, the music halted. There was a rustle and disturbance through the crowd, and Wilbur came barreling through. Techno just stood there, looking at the scene in shock. _He_ did this.

Wilbur dropped to a crouch next to Tommy. “Toms, are you okay?” he asked, gently taking the little blond into his arms. Tommy’s wings curled tight around his shoulders the way they did when he was scared or hurt. Tommy tried to stop his sobs, making him hiccup.

_I did this._

His twin looked up at him with concerned eyes. “What happened?” Techno winced. “Well—I—he was trying to take some of the desserts and he-he was reaching and about to wreck the whole table, so I just… I just kicked the chair out from under him! I didn’t mean for him to get hurt, I—”

Wilbur’s cool eyes flared with rage. He was like Phil, that way. Tommy’s anger was loud and an earthquake that hit everyone, explosive but short-lived. Wilbur and Phil, on the other hand, had that icy, terrifying anger that always meant _you really fucked up._

“What the _hell_ , Techno? So what if he wrecked the table! It’s just fucking food!”

Techno gripped his furred cloak he’d just gotten that morning. “Well, I didn’t want him to ruin the party!”

Ironic, considering all the conversation had stopped completely and every single attendee’s gaze was trained on the argument.  
  


Still holding Tommy gently, Wilbur shot back: “So you thought it was a good idea to hurt your little brother? Techno, what the fuck?”

Before Techno could open his mouth to defend himself, guilt settling deep into his bones, Wil plowed on.

“Oh, _sorry_ this party just _had_ to be perfect for the PERFECT Technoblade! Sorry it would be far too beneath you to have some fun and mingle with the others! Sorry watching your baby brother have a laugh at falling on some treats would be _unacceptable_ for your _sacred_ presence, your highness! Forgive us for stooping so low beneath your _perfect_ example, so sorry!”

He blinked. Technoblade didn’t know that’s how Wilbur felt. He stuttered, “Wil—I didn’t mean for it to be like that, I realize I shouldn’t have done it, I just didn’t want there to be any problems—”

Wilbur ran a hand through his short curls. “God, Techno, you’re always like this! You can’t handle a _single thing_ going wrong in your life! Do you seriously think that marks the sign of a good king? Your stupid perfectionism is turning you into a monster.”

Oh. Anxiety and hurt crawled up Techno’s throat. A strand from his long braid came loose and fell across his face. Something flashed in Wil’s brown eyes, and vaguely Techno registered that his brother looked like he regretted what he said. Suddenly, Philza swept into the picture, gently scooping the hiccupping Tommy in his arms. Blood was dripping from Tommy’s cut. The guilt in Techno’s chest sharpened. He felt his eyes sting.

The king looked between the two twins. “Now, boys, I think—”

  


But Techno didn’t hear him, because he had turned on his heel and stormed out of the great tent. He heard someone stumble to their feet behind him, then Phil saying, “Let him go. He needs some time alone.”

. . .

The world had dipped into a thousand shades of blue outside. Snow crunched under Techno’s boots as his feet pounded toward the forest, his heart slamming in his chest. _Idiot. Perfectionist. Monster._ He’d never be good enough. He’d never live up to Phil. He’d be the worst king because Wilbur was right and he didn’t know how to let go of control. _Control Freak._ The silver pepper of stars crept out of the dying rays on sunlight above. Techno felt the wave cresting, the panic attack trying to send him crashing down. He was stupid to think he could stop everything going wrong when _he_ was the one _making_ things go wrong.  
  


He was so busy being trapped inside his own head that he didn’t hear the rustle of people hidden in holly leaves. He didn’t notice the carriage crafted with nether brick and warped logs in the underbrush, equipped with a barred cage and the insignia of an enemy kingdom. He didn’t detect the piglin soldiers creeping around the corner until he saw the hilt of an axe swinging at his head. The last thing he heard was someone saying how the crown prince was an even better prize than the winged one, since the crown prince was a fighter. Someone let out a haughty snort as his unconscious body was heaped into the cage in the back of a carriage, saying that he’d be a fun weapon to wield. His bleary eyes couldn’t see the sky through the bars of his crate.

He slipped into unconsciousness feeling like he deserved this.

Techno wasn’t sure how long he stayed blindfolded and gagged, tied up and thrown like a sack of flour in the cage in the back of the cart. The road was horrifically bumpy, and his bonds were too tight for him to slip a hand out. Even if he _did_ manage to slip out of the crate he was in… well, Techno was good at swordfighting, but not against ten expert mercenaries that he saw flanking the cart before he was thrown inside.

He felt like a circus animal, thrown into a cage just waiting to become the next attraction. It was _demeaning—_ he was a prince, after all! This was no way to treat royalty, even in a kidnapping. That’s just embarrassing on their part. They should be ashamed. It didn’t matter—someone would come and rescue him soon, or he’d just break out himself the first chance he got. This situation _was not_ bad. He was _not_ shaking with panic, he was just a little cold. They did take his cloak, after all.

It was fine. It didn’t matter that rabid hoglins were pulled on chains around his box. It didn’t matter that wither skeletons patrolled sides of the cart. It didn’t matter that they hadn’t fed him for the three days he’d been traveling for. Because Technoblade knew this wouldn’t last for long. You mess with the Antarctic Empire, and you’re good as dead. Phil would come in and rescue him soon. Strange noises echoed outside. Despite the unbearable heat steadily increasing that had come from nowhere, Technoblade shivered. He’d never admit it to anyone who asked, but he was very, very scared. _Dadza will come soon_ , he told himself. And Technoblade was bad at lying to any and everyone, so he believed it.

Suddenly, the carriage pitched into darkness, and then Techno felt a strange warped feeling shock through his bones. When his eyes adjusted enough to see, everything was tinted with a reddish haze. The air was blisteringly hot. Anxiety squeezed his chest. _We’re in the Nether?_ The prince kept telling himself that he was _fine,_ his family would come and he’d be rescued and they’d all laugh about this later. Because he still needed to tell Wilbur he was sorry and tell Phil how much he wanted to be like him and tell Tommy that he loved him and that he was always very brave. He’d get out if this. Then the door flew open, and before Techno even had time to react, to use those fighting skills he’d worked so hard to master, a sharp pain slammed onto his head and everything went black.

He realized later that he could, in fact, lie to himself.

. . .

He woke up on an operating table. _Well, that’s fucking terrifying._

The side of his head was coated in dry blood and pounding. He blinked blearily at the ceiling above him, which was a crappy mix of blackstone and nether brick. Glowstone lamps flickered in the walls. He couldn’t move. The light, despite being dim, was blinding in his eyes. 

As his mind formulated a handful of escape plans _(all he needed was them to unclasp his bindings and he would deck them all into oblivion),_ the door creaked open and a few piglins walked in. Techno’s mind went silent.

He knew piglins were sentient; many could actually be incredibly intelligent like normal people. But no matter how smart, they were bloodthirsty, violent creatures. Their hooves were sharp and hard as bedrock, and their tusks were made for stabbing things. The only way to keep them off was with money. And ironically the prince of the wealthiest empire had not a single coin in his pocket. One of them dressed in a lab coat stepped forward, writing on a scroll and glancing up at him every few seconds. Like he was some kind of science project.

Technoblade knew how it went in the story books. Sometimes the hero had to suffer before their incredible victory, before their legendary tale came to fruition. He accepted the fact that he was _very likely about to be tortured_ and tried to steady his trembling hands in their cuffs. The hope that Phil would come rescue him did not die out, but a hearty amount of fear choked his breath as another piglin with an enormous needle approached him. The hero would be brave and look their attacker dead in the eye, spitting _“do you worst”_ and intimidating the person that dare entrap them. They would be brave. He did not do any of those things.

Techno was not so sure he was the hero anymore as each panicked gasp bordered on a terrified whimper. He wanted to wake up in his bed and wake Wilbur up and ask him to play songs to chase away the nightmare. But he couldn’t wake up because he had never been more certain in his life he wasn’t asleep. The iron clasps kept his arms, legs, neck, and chest rooted in place. He winced as a scalpel shone in the dull light and made a slice between his eyes. He barely felt the needle as they injected it into the cut. The surgeon stepped back with a wicked grin on its face, and Techno opened his mouth to bite out some empty threat. The pain was steadily increasing in his skull. He tried to talk, but his throat was too hoarse. Why was his throat hoarse? Why couldn’t he form any words? Why—

Oh. He’s screaming. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things will get so, so much worse from here >:) 
> 
> If you see typos... uhh... no you didn't :D 
> 
> Leave a comment about what you thought!


	3. The Lab

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Technoblade wakes up in hell. Back at the party (a few days ago from the date Techno's POV is in) the royal family realized something was wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT GETS BETTER IN THIS CHAPTER I SWEAR WE'RE GETTING CLOSER TO THE GOOD PARTS THAT INSPIRED THE ENTIRE FIC IN THE FIRST PLACE ; - ;
> 
> Also, the different POVs do not necessarily happen in the same time frame. At this point, Technoblade has been down there for longer than a day and much longer than the party itself. 
> 
> Things only get darker from here. 
> 
> EVERYONE MAKE SURE TO LOOK AT THE FANART MADE BY Peanut_Brains for this fic!!! I posted it at the bottom of this chapter ;D 
> 
> ANGST FOR THE ANGST GODS
> 
> TW: Uh... yeah: Torture, violence, experimentation, needles, blood, panic attack.

There was a crack in the ceiling.  
  


Techno is strapped down to an operating table, his face cut up in what felt like a hundred different ways. He was drenched in his own sweat, both from the eternally hot climate of the Nether and from the exertion of being injected with torturous substances for the last ~~hour day week year~~ few cycles of slipping between consciousness and unconsciousness. His eyes felt like someone had stuck thorns in them and his teeth felt like someone had been rotating them in their sockets. His muscles strained with soreness, both from the injections and from all the times he remembers ( _at least, he_ thinks _he remembers)_ that guards had to hold him down as he cried out, thrashing in his bonds. He thinks one of them said at one point there’d be no point to any of this if he hurt himself too much, because ‘damaged goods’ never lasted, whatever that meant. All he could taste was his metal and all he could hear was the rushing of blood in his ears.

And yet, all he could focus on was the crack in the ceiling. The only consistent thing for him to cling onto was the tiny fissure above him in the grimy blackstone. He tried not to think about all of the infections he was surely getting right now. They never mention that sort of threat in the storybooks where heroes get tortured. The thought crosses his mind again that maybe he isn’t a hero at all.

He vaguely hears several piglins bustle into the room, and suddenly the restraints clamping him to the disgusting table are released. He thinks stubbornly that Phil would never treat his prisoners this way. _Is that what I am? A prisoner? A test-subject?_ Words fluttered with tiny wings in circles around him, floating up and away when he tried to catch them.

  


They heaved him up roughly and immediately locked rusty chains around his ankles and wrists. Not that he had the energy or the strength to make a run for it. The intense security measures he’d seen them go through said enough; he’d have to wait until he was alone to plan his escape. As he glued his eyes to the ground _(he felt like they were bleeding)_ , he spotted something on the floor and his stomach dropped. Swept under the side of the table were silky strands of brown hair, dirtied by dust and blood and what looked like vomit. _They cut his hair._ In the haze he’d been in since waking up, he hadn’t noticed. It feels like that was important, but he can’t quite put a finger on—

The door slamming closed to his cell felt like a wake-up call. He doesn’t have any idea how they got here. Above him, dull light breaks through a series of iron bars crossed so that only tiny holes can get through. The air tastes stale. Below his feet there’s a sewer grate, and he can see lava flowing far below. Techno blinks; what’s missing? Why does his head feel so weird?

His shaky hand trails to his back to grab his braid (braiding and unbraiding his hair always helped him calm down). There’s nothing there. Something snaps. His hands flew to his choppy locks of hair, once braided neatly to the middle of his back now hanging just below his chin. He feels his chest constricting, and everything comes rushing in.

He was just _tortured._ Countless hours of pain and the scribbling of a pen on a clipboard after each injection slam into his head, memories of agonized, unfiltered screams being ripped from his mouth. And they _cut his hair._

  
What. The. Fuck.

How had everything gone so wrong? How did he _let_ this happen? Did he seriously let his emotions from that stupid fight at the party overwhelm all of his training? Anger flared up to push back the terror and pain that threatened to overtake him; for once, he could make his stupid self-loathing useful—no, no, no, this was _not_ the time to be getting all existential and philosophical. He just spent who knows how long being tested in a _lab._

“ _Holy shit_ ,” he mutters, and his throat feels like it’s been used as a cat’s scratching board. His voice sounds ragged. Damp light spews from the shroomlight embedded in the ceiling, casting shadows along strange carvings in the walls. Technoblade’s head spins. He wants to pass out and wake up in his big cozy bed and see Phil asleep in the cushy armchair next to it because he fell asleep reading Techno myths. He digs his fingers into his arms, and immediately yelps in pain. His velvet sleeves are long gone; he’s in a gray smock of some sort. His arms have bumpy stitches in them and are mottled with bruises. He feels sick as he touches one and pushes _something_ they dug beneath his skin. Bile rises in his mouth, but he forcibly swallows it back down.

Technoblade slowly counts backward from ten, listening to the chug of lava in the sewers below him. By the time his lips form the word one, he has stopped trembling. He can work with dire situations. He can’t work with self-inflicted insanity.

His brain kept trying to lull him into thinking about his happy memories, which he _knew_ was a bad idea. He didn’t need to try to cope with whatever severe trauma he’d just gone through _~~the pain didn’t stop and the needles sank into his neck and they were cutting into his throat and his spine was on fire~~_ ~~,~~ he needed to figure out where he was and figure out how to exploit any weakness in his environment.

He tugged at the lock on the main cell door. Nothing. Techno winces as his fingers come away caked in a brown layer of dirt. _Gross_. He tries the overhead vent. The sewer grate. The walls. The corners. He tries reaching through the bars of his door to touch the wall of the hallway. The locks. The stone cot in the corner.

  
Nothing.

_It’s fine, you’re fine, move on to plan B. Do_ not _panic._ He steadies himself. If there were no structural components he could crack, he’d have to wait for a guard to show up and take him away. It’d be stupid to attack the first one who came back to retrieve him and bring him for who knows what sort of twisted suffering; he’d take in his surroundings as well as he could, piece together said snippets of information, then launch a carefully planned escapade.

He’d likely leave the vicinity and find himself stranded in the middle of the Nether, if this group of mercenaries was any smart. But Techno had spent his entire life trying to learn everything, and much of that included the nether. He could easily make a bowl out of the trees from the Nether’s haunting forests and collect mushrooms to make stew, and avoid mobs the best he could unless he managed to come across a solid weapon. He would be smart about this. He would not fail.

Needless to say, Technoblade did not have to fail, because he knew his plan would never work at all. When the guard came later (there was no solid way to tell time; the nether had no sun and he had no clock), Techno hated the way he winced as they shackled him ~~his arms chafing against restraints soiled with the blood of those who suffered on the table before him~~ and shoved him out of the cell ~~he could fell impossibly strong arms keeping his torso flat on the table as he thrashed, the muscles in his jaw roaring in pain~~. As he formulated the best way to acquire the information he’d need, either through strict observation or careful questioning of the people who handled him, a piglin in sharp gold and blackstone armor stopped the party of guards handling him. It glared at Technoblade with beady eyes, and snorted. “This one the prince?” The guard holding the back of Techno’s neck nodded. The head guard suddenly had a heavy axe in its hand. “Boss wants us to keep him knocked out. Apparently ‘e’s too smart and ‘e can actually fight.”

Techno saw the hilt of the weapon spin towards his head, and survival instincts kicked in. With the guards paused, he managed to duck his head just in time. The axe hilt slammed into the stomach of a piglin with leather graves behind him, who toppled backward. For a second, the guards loosened their grip. He had two choices.

_The god Janus stood in that nether brick hallway, his two faces angled right and left. In his right hand, Techno saw that if he were to bolt and run, he’d be lost in a maze like the Minotaur, waiting to be slain as he turned each corner. He was hurt, lost, and confused, and he’d likely be killed for a transgression like that, based on the brutality he’d seen. If he took Janus’ left hand, he’d be knocked out by the guards and still dragged to wherever he was going in the first place, likely more roughly since he undoubtedly pissed off the guards._

With a resigned, internal sigh, Techno took the left hand. He would not fail if he did not try at all. The group of piglins regained their composure, and the axe hilt slammed into his already throbbing temple. The world went dark.

* * *

Tommy didn’t understand why Techno stormed out of the tent. The party had gone back to normal ever since he’d gotten his super-cool battle scar on his cheek from hitting the chair. Techno had been ditching the party for a little too long now; he was the host _and_ one of the birthday boys, so his lack of presence seemed rather rude, in Tommy’s opinion.

After Tommy had sniffled his last tears away from getting hurt and gotten some ice to put on his wrist, Phil told him and Wilbur to go and find Techno outside and make up. The blonde prince wasn’t even that upset about the whole thing; he was more irritated that he didn’t get to snatch a pastry off of the dessert table. Wilbur’s lips were pressed into a tight line, but he looked a little bit remorseful as he clutched Tommy’s hand and they went out into the snow, following footprints to the forest.

Fluttering his downy wings, Tommy glanced up at his brother. “Wil, I know you're mad at Techie, but I don’t think he meant to ruin your birthday party. He’s just being a nerd.” The brunette said nothing in response; he just squeezed Tommy’s hand tighter. His silver circlet glinted in the weak moonlight, making the panes of his face sharper.  
  
When they found the end of the footsteps, Techno was nowhere to be found. Wilbur’s eyebrows furrows. “Technoblade?” he called, his confident voice faltering. The icy wind howled back. Tommy ruffled his plumage, a few molting feathers falling loose into the snow. The trees looked a lot scarier. “Techno, we aren’t playing hide and seek. This isn’t cool,” he squeaked. They wandered around the clearing a bit, until Wilbur suddenly stopped. “Toms,” he said in a slow, serious voice. “Go get Dadza. Now.” Wilbur was always good at using his voice, so for once Tommy just nodded, blue eyes fearful, and he raced back into the large tent.

Wilbur fell to his knees, his blue cloak spreading around him like a puddle. With trembling hands, he lifted a golden crown off of the blood-speckled snow.

IN OTHER RIDICULOUSLY INSANE NEWS:

UM... A FRIEND OF MINE DREW THIS FIC **_FANART!_** Based off the line from Chapter 1:

"Philza was a constellation and a story Techno would spend his life trying to read." 

ART BY THE MAGNIFICENT **_Peanut_Brains! :_**

**__ **

**_JUST LOOK AT THIS MAGNIFICENT PHILZA AND THE STARS AND HIS WINGS I- ; - ; ITS SO AMAZING_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peanut_Brains you own my heart. <3
> 
> I WILL POST MORE SOON!
> 
> TO ANY PEOPLE WHO ARE HERE FROM LITTLE VICTORIES IM SORRY I HAVENT GOTTEN THE NEW CHAPTER UP YETTT I KNOW IM DEPRIVING YOU OF CONTENT BUT AT LEAST THIS FIC IS A PREQUEL HAHA
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! If you saw typos, ofc, no you didn't <3


	4. The Experiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get worse for Techno, but then he meets an ally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wasn't gonna post this but then I realized I need to rewrite half of the next chapter which I ALREADY HAD WRITTEN because I was working backwards and I accidentally changed some things. It's not as long as it could've been but I hope u all like it and the new character. I promise the like 'meat' of the fic is in the next chapter; if you've stuck w/ me for this long, hang in there!!! 
> 
> Much pain. Happy Valentines Day! 
> 
> Enjoy ;)
> 
> ANGST FOR THE ANGST GODS
> 
> TW: Experimentation, violence, torture (but not super descriptive), suffering, pain, pain, pain, please read with discretion!!!

* * *

When Technoblade and Wilbur were little and Tommy was just a toddler, they liked to switch places and pretend to be one another. At that point, they were literally identical, and hadn’t drifted apart as much because of royal expectations. It was their favorite little experiment to test, to see who would drop the act first. Techno used to like silly little 'science' projects like that. He wishes that were the thought that came into his head when he thought about experiments.

. . .

Techno was tortured and stuck up with drugs five more times _(he’s pretty sure)_ before they finally left him alone in his cell long enough for him to sort out a new plan.

He needs more information. That much is painfully clear, but it doesn’t help that he’s hardly conscious between trips to that _room_ and then all he does is _scream_ in that room so that’s… his thoughts trail off. Focus has been hard to maintain lately, but that's okay. He doesn’t like staying in this thoughts much anymore; he’s always preferred to focus on rote action.

The food they give him is some crude mix between meat and stew. It feels like they give it to him once a day, but he can never be sure. They slide it through a slot in his cell, making sure he’s asleep or back against the wall before they give it to him. Hours are years and months are seconds in his cell. He isn’t far gone enough that he won’t eat it. It tastes like smoke and rotten beef. 

As he tips the bowl to his lips with weak arms, Techno feels something crack when he admits to himself he’s afraid again. He doesn’t want to be in pain anymore. How was everything so different, so normal not too long ago? How had he _just_ given Phil a rare hug after Phil gave him his own set of Greek Mythology books? How had he _just_ been making silly faces in the mirror with Wilbur when they put on their matching birthday cloaks, since they finally got to spend an entire day together for once? How had he _just_ been helping Tommy preen his feathers before his party?

Techno touched the cut edges of his dark brown hair, his pale hand trembling. He misses the repetitive comfort of braiding it. Now, it’s hardly long enough, and his hands can’t stop shaking for him to do it right. Hopefully he doesn’t need to spend a lot of time trying to figure stuff out because Philza will come in and save him and blow this place to smithereens.

Hopefully. But Technoblade has never been an optimist.

. . .

An hour later, he’s curled up on his stone cot trying to sit in a way that doesn’t make everything hurt more than it already does when he gets his first bit of insight.

They’re dragging a prisoner into the cell next to his for the first time. It’s a piglin with lopsided arms of different sizes and small tusks, and he’s shouting at the guards in a strange, gravelly lilt. It doesn’t sound right in Technoblade’s ears, but his head always hurts these days. He lifts his head as the sound gets louder in the hallway.

“—second I get out of here, I’m going to bash your fuckin’ heads in for what you’re doing. It’s sick. Experimenting on folks, tryna make them something they’re not? Fuck you. Fuck you. Y’all are _monsters._ ”

The guard shoving him by slammed him into the gritty wall, and Techno winced in sympathy. He was close enough to hear the guard hiss, “ _You’re lucky they want your head and your voice intact, or I would’ve bashed your skull to bits by now.”_

The piglin just huffed, and for the first time he noticed Technoblade in his cell. His eyes widened ever so slightly, but he said nothing as the guard threw him into the neighboring cell and locked it. The _clang_ of the metal resounded in the heavy air. Since the cell was to the side of his, they were separated by a stone wall and couldn’t see one another.

As the guard made to leave, Techno pretended to be unconscious again, waiting until their footsteps vanished down the hallway. He stood from his cot, bones aching, and crept toward the bars. He hesitated. There could be guards anywhere nearby, and talking to a fellow prisoner was very likely forbidden. The wall was thick, so he’d have to talk louder than he would have preferred. He’d probably get punished, but didn’t he already suffer on a daily basis anyway? Before he could decide, a low voice came from a tiny crack by his cot.

“Hello? Anyone there?”

Techno scrambled over, crouching on the stone, and pressed his face to the miniscule hole. “H-hi, yeah.”

It sounded like the other prisoner was smiling as he said, “well, seems like we’re both in quite a shitty situation. Nice to meet you.”

As Techno’s own lips pulled into a weak grin, he felt a stab of pain from his cheeks. Oh, right. The cuts. He settled for a “you too.”

It sounded like his company had stretched back onto his own bed, which must be aligned with where Techno’s own was. “So, what’re you in for?”

Technoblade blinked. “What?”

A dull laugh came from the fissure. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. No one in this hellhole deserves to be here. The guards hardly want to be here themselves.” His last words were punctuated with a scary sounding cough. A moment later, the hacking subsided. “Sorry, they’ve been screwing with my vocal cords and throat. Can’t really get a break, but they can’t really shut me up either, so at least it works out. I’ve never been put in a cell so close to another subject before.”

His limbs strained from holding his ear to the crevice, but the young prince remained pressed to the wall. “What do you mean, _subject_?”

“You haven’t been here very long if you haven’t figured that much out yet. I’m guessing they bring you into a lab or operating room every day, right?” Techno nodded, before remembering the person couldn’t see him. “Yes.”

“Well, they’re doing tests. Experiments. Trying to turn us into freaky mutants, or whatever. For me, they keep doing shit I can’t see to my throat; all I know is that after every session, my voice sounds like its making noises no piglin should be able to.” That explained the strange lilt and fluctuations his voice had. “I think it might be enderman or shulker or something. They won’t answer any of my questions. The only good thing about them ripping my neck open is that they have to be real careful not to kill me, since I could easily bleed out if they fuck up. And they can’t slam my head in either, ‘cuz that could interfere with my brain signals or something. And they test the brain signaling _so_ much. Kinda annoying, if ya ask me.”

A dark thought crept into Technoblade’s head. “But doesn’t that mean they don’t let you get knocked out? Like… do they force you _not_ to lose consciousness?”

A resigned huff. “Yeah. It sucks. But I’ve seen… I’ve _heard_ other folks who have it worse.” Through the rusted vents, a hot blast of Nether air flowed in. A weighted pause floated between the two cells. At last, the other prisoner spoke up.

  
“From what I saw when I was getting roughed up by that guard, you’re human, right?”

“Yeah, I am.”

“What’s your name?”

“I’m Technoblade.”

A dramatic gasp. “ _What_? That name is _sick_ , dude.”

Another smile painfully pulled at Techno’s face. He didn’t like smiling that much anymore. “Heh, thanks. From what _I_ saw when you were getting owned by that guard, you’re a piglin? What can I call you?”

“Right you are. I’m Carl, but that’s nowhere _near_ as cool as Technoblade. Damn, so—” His sentence was split by another round of strange, creaky coughs. “How old are you, by the way?”  
  


A pang of sadness flushed through him as he almost said fourteen. When they were talking about their birthday party, Philza had smiled at the twins when they insisted they were officially adults and said, _You’ll always be my little boys._ They’d protested that statement indignantly, but it made Techno feel warm and happy nevertheless. Tears burned his eyes. He blinked them away. “I got kidnapped and taken here on my birthday. I’ve just turned fifteen... what I _think_ was a little while ago. Time is hard.”

Silence. As seconds trickled by, Techno thought his prison-mate may have passed out or fallen asleep. “Um, hello?”

“You’re only _fifteen_?” The question sounded shocked, incredulous. Horrified.

“Uh, yeah. How old are you?”  
  


“I’m twenty-four. I don’t think it’s been a year since my birthday, so around that age. But _geez_ , kid, I’m so sorry. They’re fucking _barbarians_ for using someone as young as you. Good _god_. That’s awful.”

Techno didn’t know what else to say, so he stayed silent. Somewhere floors beneath him, far away screams slithered through the halls. He shuddered. To distract his thoughts from picturing what might be causing those screams, he kept talking ( _not that they had many topics to discuss more cheerful than the torture going on downstairs)._  
  
“I guess they’re doing some different stuff to me, uh, not anything to my voice, I mean.” Though, his voice _was_ altered because it was always hoarse from screaming. Plus, the harsh Nether air did a number on his lungs, too. “They cut up my face and stick some drugs or whatever into it. Not really sure what. Makes my senses go all weird, and my limbs hurt a lot.” He swallows. “I pass out relatively quickly, so I can never figure out what they’re doing. I guess I should count myself lucky I don’t have to be awake the whole time.”

Carl laughs quietly and humorlessly. “Not one person down here should count themselves lucky, kid. I wouldn’t wish this fate onto my worst enemies. Not for one second. Can’t imagine how much it sucks for you, since you’re not even from the Nether.”

Techno hummed, then shut up as he heard two sets of footsteps approaching. He quickly turned onto his side on his stone cot, hoping he appeared to be sleeping. The two guards walked by. Once he was sure they were far away, he crouched down to the crack again.

“Carl, do you know about any weaknesses this place has? What the guards’ schedules are? Has anyone ever escaped?”  
  


Carl seemed to ponder the question, based on the quiet that fell. “As I said before, they really do everything they can to keep you from figuring shit out. I’m a special case, since they can’t clobber me in the head at all.” He sighed. “The only case I know of someone getting out of _this_ area are the experiments that are… successful. I don’t hear that much about it, but I think they use them to fight something. I have no clue.”

Techno stared at the ceiling of his prison, his _cage_. The blackstone looked greasy in the dull lights coming from the hallway. “I’m going to plan. I’m going to find a crack in their system,” _The Achilles Heel._ “I’ll learn about it, then exploit it, then bust us out. Or, better yet, someone will come rescue us first. We’ll get out.”

A loud sigh came from Carl’s room echo through the hallway. He hardly heard the murmur, “That’s what we all say.”

. . .

The two only ever saw each other when they were getting taken from their cells to the operating rooms. They never took two prisoners in the same area out at the same time, presumably to prevent any group unity or uprisings. It became a sick, twisted little game, to make faces at one another before being dragged off to hours of torture. To wink and ‘accidentally’ trod on the guards’ feet. To give a subtle nod or thumbs up when it seemed like the session would be particularly brutal. It kept them both going.

When they were alone, the two either slept or talked. They had to be careful, so careful, to keep the guards from seeing their friendship. Techno told him about the Antarctic Empire. Carl told him about the happy village he used to live in, near of a bastion and deep in a warped forest. Techno told him about Wilbur and his music and Tommy and his fiery heart. Carl told him about the female piglin he’d been in love with and his gentle father who ran his village’s blacksmith. Techno talked about Phil a lot, and how he knew his dad was looking for him and that he’d find him somehow. Carl never replied when he talked about Phil rescuing him.

. . .

Techno’s hair was losing its color. As time passed, he watched the edges slowly growing lighter, then whiter, and finally bleaching all together. Carl made a half-hearted joke that it made him look like an old man, but didn’t push it when he saw how upset Techno was.

As he pulled a white lock in front of his face, Techno’s heart squeezed. _Now Wilbur and I don’t have the same color hair. How will we prank people in the castle by switching places now?_ It didn’t matter that they hadn’t done that for years and had developed noticeably different styles. It still hurt.

****

He missed when Wilbur was there to braid his hair, missed when Tommy would accidentally knot it up trying to learn. He missed when Philza would help him brush it after long days and tell him he looked very princely.

Technoblade wanted to go home.

. . .

Carl was getting harder to understand. He coughed half the time and the other half his voice came out a little too warbled and creaky, and more often than not Techno had to ask him to repeat what he’d said. They didn’t discuss it.

. . .

The pain was wearing away at him. The secret talks with Carl and the faces they made for each other when they caught a glimpse of the other’s cell weren’t helping anymore. Time bled on insensibly, and his body hurt more and more as his torture went on. His face was in an eternal state of agony, and his muscles flared whenever he moved. His teeth ached when he talked. The plans he discussed with Carl to get out only hurt him; both because they made his jaw burn, and because they gave him false hope.

Techno started figuring out what the things they were sticking in him were doing when he was able to hear the guards coming from much further away than usual. He shushed Carl, who was describing a hallway he’d spotted that might lead out. Carl asked him what was wrong, and he told him he heard guards coming. A full minute later, a few guards bustled by. One spat into Techno’s cage.

They realized his senses were sharpening, whether that was the intended effect of the drugs or not. It wasn’t consistent, though; sometimes he’d be able to see down the shadows of the hallway outside his cell, other times he couldn’t. Even if Carl said that it was something they could use to their advantage, Techno hated whatever they were doing. His nerves always felt _wrong_ when his senses were improved. His skin felt raw and strange when he touched his face. His pale arms were always mottled with bruises from needles and beatings, which they tended to give him if they didn’t get what they were looking for after the drugs were administered. Before he lost consciousness, he heard one of them mention that they hoped the brutality would trigger _it._ Either ‘ _it’_ was his heightened senses, or it was something much worse.

Techno prayed that he’d never have to look in the mirror again.

. . .

In the nether, there’s not really a sky. There’s just a red haze that touches the netherrack roof, fuming with noxious gases. Sometimes, clouds of it pour through the overhead vent and make Technoblade’s eyes water and his lungs burn. He misses the stars and the sky. When Carl comes back one time after his experimentation, he’s _sobbing_ , so Techno tells him about the moon and the constellations and how Philza taught him the stories behind each one and that’s why he likes mythology so much. Carl doesn’t know what mythology is, he says between shuddering cries, so Techno tells him about Aeneas and Odysseus and his other favorites. By the time he’s telling him about Icarus, Carl has stopped crying.

“…so Icarus, even with his wax and feather wings, was never really able to escape his fate. His wings burned and he fell, slamming into the ocean, then he died. His dad, unable to save him, flew to land and built him a statue. The end.”

Techno was hoping his friend would make some sarcastic comment about how depressing the tale was, or how stupid Icarus was for flying too high up when he knew the sun would melt the wax on his fake wings, or even complain that since he was born in the Nether, Carl didn’t know what the sun looked like and it was a dumb story to tell him. He didn’t.

He just said, “Didn’t you say your little brother had wings?”

The prince blinked and his breath caught in his throat. He pushed back a wave of emotion. “Yeah. Tommy does. He couldn’t fly yet the last time I saw him.” He wondered if Tommy could fly now. Tommy would love flying, and Philza would be a great teacher. For the millionth time, he silently begged Phil to come soon.

The shroomlight in Techno’s cell made the bruises on his arms seem yellowish. He closed his eyes. The silence stretched on, punctuated only by the lava flowing in the sewer beneath them. Finally, Carl coughed, then rasped, “I don’t blame that kid in the story for wanting to fly up and do cool shit after being trapped for so long.” He sounded really tired. The piglin let out a huff. “Icarus knew what he was doing.”

Neither of them said anything for a long time after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehehe
> 
> next chapter Techno starts fighting in the ring >:) 
> 
> also the voices will enter the playing field >:D 
> 
> ignore any typos lol
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed!!! Please leave a kudo & a comment if you enjoyed :D 
> 
> Come join my discord! If you want to talk about any of my fics, share fanart of them, or just hang out, head on over! <3 
> 
> https://discord.gg/q9Vm5wnbF7


	5. The Ring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The royal family of the Arctic continue to look for their missing piece; it's been six months, and they have no leads. Techno finally discovers what happens after the experiments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys have NO IDEA how long this chapter took me. It was actually the chapter that inspired the whole fic, and I had to add a TON onto it to make it fit the plot I'd constructed.
> 
> It's like 6.3k words. That's basically two chapters in one, but I couldn't find a good way to separate it. I'll be focusing on Little Victories a bit more for the time being, since this chapter was such a chonker. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy. I worked ~so~ hard on this one, and I think this is the chapter you guys will like the most. :D Please leave a comment below and kudos if you enjoyed because I am dead inside and if I have nothing to show for this monster of a chapter I ~will~ cry. 
> 
> ALSO CHECKOUT THE FANART AT THE END!!! :D
> 
> ANGST FOR THE ANGST GODS
> 
> TW: Experimentation, Drugs, Violence, Fighting, references to torture, suicidal thoughts  
> (as I write these tags, I am very concerned by the fact that THIS is what I write. huh. anyway enjoy)

* * *

_(Wilbur’s POV)_

The ruler of the Antarctic Empire was seated in his great throne, in a hall glistening with beautiful tapestries of ice and silver. At his right side in a smaller throne was the second-oldest prince, one half of a whole that hadn’t been complete for a few months now. The small chair designed to accommodate little wings on his left was empty, for the youngest prince had refused to leave his room again.

In between the throne of the second prince and Philza’s was the empty chair of the crown prince. It felt like a void. The hall was a lot colder without the entire family.

King Philza was glaring at the captain of the guard bowed low in front of him, his face livid with anger. “ _Captain_. It’s been _six months_. I haven’t forgotten that it was _your_ _men_ who failed to properly follow and protect my son when he went alone into the forest and was taken. And you have the fucking _audacity_ to come in here and tell me you have _nothing_ to show for months of searching? _NOTHING_?” His knuckles were white as they clenched around the arms of his throne. Wilbur flinched at his father’s tone, but did not move his eyes from boring into the captain.

The man shakily stood from where he knelt. “Y-your majesty, we’ve questioned every man and woman, every organization, communicated with all our neighboring kingdoms, and planted spies throughout the Overworld. There are posters in every single village in your empire, and we have people investigating reported sightings on a daily basis. They-they all come up dry, your Majesty.”

Wilbur rubbed a hand over his face. He was so tired these days. “Have you made note of any old enemies and their potential motives, or places that may have something to gain by holding him hostage?” His voice was cold, so cold, compared to the warmth and welcome it used to radiate. It was hard to act happy and princely when the world he knew was crumbling around him.

The captain explained that they had plenty of sources of conflict being investigated as they spoke, and how they were determining what kingdoms may have ill-will towards the Antarctic. Philza told him to look harder, to get more men on it, to do whatever it took, then dismissed him with an angry wave of his hand. The doors to the throne room closed with a resounding _thud_. The moment it was just Wil and his father, Phil put his head in his hands.

A dreadful question shivered into Wilbur’s head. He looked at his dad, then hesitated. He wasn’t sure how to make things better, how to diffuse the problem and offer functional solutions like Techno. And he was scared Phil would lash out at him like he did the captain. The thought didn’t go away, so he asked quietly, “Dad… do you think Techno is,” he swallowed, “is dead?”

The king stood, straightening the golden crown on his head. The dark bags under his eyes looked more pronounced when the crown’s shadow hung over his face. He ruffled his great black feathers. “I don’t know, Wil. I don’t know. I pray that he isn’t every damn minute.” He waved a wing towards the door to the side. “Want to go grab Tommy from his room and go for a walk?”

It was really the _last_ thing the prince wanted to do; he just wanted to curl up in bed and pretend this was all some horrible nightmare. He nodded anyway. His father was under enough stress as it was, so the least he could do was go for a walk.

They made their way to Tommy’s room, where the youngest child was scribbling away at something on his desk. When Philza and Wilbur entered, he quickly grabbed the papers and threw them into his desk, then tried to hide it by awkwardly flaring his downy wings. Neither of them bothered him about it when they saw the nervous but firm expression on Tommy’s face. When they said nothing, Tommy turned his back to them, muttering something about being busy. Phil just crouched down, and in a gentle, ever-patient voice, asked, “Hey Toms, it’d mean a lot to me and Wil if you’d come for a walk with us. I know it’s really cold right now, but you can wear that new cloak you got. The one that matches your wings.”

Tommy let out a huff. “I know which one my new cloak is, Dadza,” he mumbled, rolling his eyes. But he walked over to his closet and pulled out a burgundy cloak with white fur edges and a golden chain for the clasp around the neck. His closet was an absolute mess, so he took a second to dig it out. Then he stomped over and held out his arm to Phil, looking the other way like he was annoyed. Wilbur knew he wasn’t.

Philza took Tommy by the hand and led his two sons into the garden at the back of the castle. He opened the doors to a grove of willows and snowy flowers, cast silver in the hollow moonlight. The air was brisk, but their thick velvet cloaks kept them warm. Tommy’s red feathers glinted as he walked, his wings fluttering every few seconds like a nervous tick. The broken family sat on a bench under the great tresses of one of the trees, where you could still see the sky through the shelter, keeping them hidden from any onlookers but not from the stars. In a tired voice, Phil pointed out the constellation of Perseus, and began telling his story. One of the few myths with a happy ending for the hero. Technoblade would have liked that one, or maybe he already knew it. Wil didn’t know. He wished he had asked him what his favorite stories were. Without his brother, the stars looked like a graveyard, the sky filled with the light of long dead galaxies far away. Philza finished the story, and the quiet was only hindered by Tommy’s sniffles. They returned to the castle in silence. The willows murmured on.

* * *

  
  


_(Technoblade’s POV)_

  
  


Technoblade thought about his family. He was sure that, despite their fight, they missed him. He wishes the last time they’d talked hadn’t been an argument. He wishes that he could’ve had more time with them. He wishes Phil would come find him soon. _But what would they think of the broken prince they found instead?_

Did they think he was dead? That would suck. For all Wil had talked about how much he hated being in Techno’s shadow, he didn’t think his twin would like being crown prince. He wouldn’t be able to spend his time playing and writing music and hanging out with people, and he certainly wouldn’t be able to sneak out in the middle of the night to go visit that girl Sally _(who Techno_ knew _Wilbur had a crush on)_ whenever he wanted. Technoblade lamented the fact that he never got to tell his family he loved them again, and regretted how he denied Tommy his fun at the party. Funny, they always say how you only realize how much you had when everything is taken from you, but they never talk about how much that realization hurts.

He’s lying on the dirty floor of his cell, staring at the lava through the thick sewer grate on the floor. As he chews the inside of his cheek, Techno realizes his teeth are definitely getting sharper, and staying that way, unlike his fluctuating improved eyesight and hearing. And there’s nothing he can do. From the crevice by his cot, Carl’s whisper breaks through. Techno leans over. “Sorry, what was that?” His own voice is a rasp.

Carl repeats whatever he said again, and Techno’s heart drops. It’s completely undistinguishable. He closes his eyes for a moment, leaning his forehead against the wall. “Carl, I-I can’t understand you.”

A gruff cough; Carl’s trying to clear his throat. His friend tries again. Techno shakes his head, even though he can’t see him. “I still can’t.”

There’s a dull thud, like Carl has punched the wall. He hears a sharp warble, like his prison mate just cursed in whatever language he’s speaking now. He hears him shuffle back over to the crack, and then almost ridiculously slowly, “Te..ll m…e w‘at sss…now ‘s l…ike.”

He’s barely speaking words, but Technoblade thinks he can decipher enough. “You want me to tell you about snow?” A grunt of acknowledgement. Techno closes his eyes and leans his head back, thinking about the winter wonderland he used to live in, that he took for granted. “It’s really beautiful; they fall in tiny white flakes that look like stars from clouds. Kind of like the ash that floats by in some Nether biomes, but cleaner. When it snows a lot, it piles into big fluffy heaps on the ground and looks really soft. It is, but it’s also freezing, so you have to wear a lot of clothes to keep warm.” His face aches in that way that means he’s trying to smile again. He forces himself not to. “My brothers and I used to always go out and play in the snow after really big storms. It… it never mattered how old we got, we’d just spend the day outside throwing balls of the snow at one another and rolling around in it and piling the snow into shapes that looked like people.” His eyes ache and burn; he’s too dehydrated and the weather is too hot for him to cry anymore. He thinks about Carl telling him about his childhood, and how the piglin loved chasing the leaves in the Nether forests and climbing up the strange vines that grew from the floor. “I think you’d like it a lot, Carl.”

Before his friend has the chance to reply, the sound of guards coming their way echoes down the hall. Terror freezes through his chest. He doesn’t want another session so soon. It hurts _so much_. But as the steps get closer, he notices that there’s a lot of them. He rolls onto his side quickly, turning so he can crack his eyes open but still appear to be asleep. Not that him sleeping has ever stopped them from barging in and forcing him up, but it helps a little.

The orange glow of a lantern appears in the hand of a heavily armored guard. At least six or seven others trail behind their leader. Techno’s stomach twists as he hears keys being jammed into the lock of his cell. The barred door swings open. He’s so scared.

Someone grabs him by the collar of his gray smock, and he’s thrown against the wall. His vision flickers as agony explodes in his head. His eyes sting and he feels that strange strain in his muscles. As he slides to the ground, he gingerly touches the back of his head. His hand comes back red with blood. It colors a few wisps of his hair a pinkish sort of shade, now that almost all of his hair is white. A guard points at his face. “That’s what doc told us to look for. See his eyes? And look at his fingers. Comes out with the blood. It’s time to move him to the ring cells.”

He had no idea what they were talking about. The lantern flickered, and his skull pounded as they heaved him up. Techno cried out as something sharp dug into his neck when they were in the hallway. From the cell next to his, he can finally see Carl for more than a few seconds. He’s thin and frail and his face is gaunt. Reaching his hooves through the bars, Carl calls for him, shouting something that Techno can’t hear. Maybe it’s because Carl’s voice is twisted up or because his ears are ringing. He tries to give his friend a smile, stretching his lips back, but it only makes his wounds tear open. The blood trickles down his face and he feels everything around him sharpen again. The last thing he saw before whatever drug they stuck in his neck kicked in was Carl’s terrified face. He never realized Carl had such kind eyes.

. . .

Techno woke up in a new cell with a completely sealed door. The first thing he noticed was a pail in the corner full of gray water; that must’ve been why the door was sealed, since any liquid quickly evaporated in the exposed Nether air. There were a few changes in this cage like that. The vent was in the upper corner of the wall instead of on the floor. There was a slightly larger pot of the same meaty stew by the door, which had a tiny flap. His cot had a single sheet of horribly thin wool on it, now. It didn't look like it'd help for much, since the air was still unbearably hot. But it was something new. _Upgrades, I guess._ His gaze drifted to the wall. He couldn’t hear anything outside anymore. Stumbling to his feet, he noticed the new chains clasped between his arms. Techno sighed.

After he’d been sitting in the stifling box for what felt like a few hours, sipping gritty water from the bucket, trying to down some food, the door swung open. The usual fear ran through his veins, but at this point he was used to it. He let them drag him out without protest, hoping to get an idea of where he’d been moved by ‘behaving’ or whatever. He was pulled down several hallways, passing by cages with a variety of different creatures. Techno spotted a piglin half-blackened by what looked like enderman skin, several hoglins, a villager with blaze rods circling its arms and orange eyes, and some spider-like _thing_ crouched in the shadows. None of the others had sealed doors like he did.

A dull roar sounded in Techno’s ears. At first, he thought it was just the blood rushing in his head, but it got louder as they went down towards a gate, light spilling through. Before he could react, the gate rose up, and the guards holding him unlocked his cuffs and shoved him forward. He fell onto a soft ground. Sand crunched beneath his palms. Behind the closing gate, he heard a guard shout, “ _Fight._ ”

Some loud voice was shouting above the crowd about a newcomer entering the ring. Techno glanced up to see a webbed net of metal high above him, and behind that fence, a frothing crowd of screaming piglins. Across from him, another rusty gate was slowly rising.

_Fight_ , the guard had said. The pieces connected in his brain. There weren’t any weapons, anything he could use but the sand between his fingers. He looked at his bruised hands and curled them into fists, taking a shuddering breath. _So this is what they wanted to ‘improve’ me for. Pit fighting._ The announcer, a piglin seated in a raised dais with a cone to speak through, was calling out the name of whatever stepped through the door across from him.

It was a piglin, with strange, serrated barbs along its forearms. It didn’t have the same kind eyes Carl had. A bell rang, and it charged.

Techno’s training kicked in. He remembered his first tutor, who made him learn basic martial arts before handing him a weapon. He raised his arms in a defensive position.

The fight was over in a few minutes. Techno delivered the final blow to the piglin’s temples, knocking him out.

His opponent’s eyes flickered like lightbulbs, then he went down, falling to the sand with a thud. Techno’s hands and arms stung with the tiny cuts from the piglin’s strange barbs. The crowd was shouting unintelligibly, something about blood. He was covered in it; both his own, and his adversary’s. It stained a few clumps of his hair reddish pink. He hadn’t realized it, but his fingernails had sharpened during the fight, now pointed like tiny little blades. The side of his head felt strange, too; he carefully reached up and touched an ear. It was pointed, and his bottom canines were poking out. Despite being riddled with injuries, his arms felt strangely strong, but that feeling was fading quickly as the adrenaline of combat slipped away. Apparently fighting triggered the enhancements, then.

The guards swept in, wrapping him in chains. Techno had given them what they wanted; as they exited, he saw money being exchanged in the audience around him, and even between a few guards. They’d been betting on him. He didn’t get anything but a lovely trip back to his cell with the cuffs firmly placed on. No one showed up to help heal the bruises and cuts from the fight, so he poured what little water he had left in his bucket on them, then tore off the bottom of his shirt and wrapped them up his forearms. Better than nothing, he supposed.

He won more often than he lost, but each loss added another straw to the camel’s back, settling for the inevitable break. Sometimes the wins added a straw, too. After each victory, he’d stand back and look at the blood and unconscious body on the floor. He felt like some heathen saint, surrounded by relics of his own making.

The cuts on his face were constantly pulled open and needles were shoved in, only to be closed haphazardly a little later. The incisions along his throat and collarbone were in an eternal state of irritation, scars curling from his upper chest to where his jaw met his neck. His muscles were always sore. Even though they’d moved him to the ring, apparently they still needed to keep giving him doses of that shit; only now, they didn’t hit or beat him with metal poles anymore. It only made him more afraid.

There was never any mention of what they were sticking in him; since he woke up screaming in agony most days, his nails digging into his face, he guessed that it wasn’t anything good. He missed Carl. He wondered where Carl was now. He tried _not_ to think about where he was now. Hopefully, he would be able to make one of their insane plots to escape work. But again, Techno had never been much of an optimist.

If Techno tried to disobey, he was left to face whatever new torture the ‘head’ doctor, a strange human-piglin hybrid with a sick gleam in his eyes, could come up with for the day; usually, it involved new drugs that gave him terrible hallucinations of watching his loved ones die. For just trying to trip a guard or not immediately getting up from his new cell, he had to watch Tommy’s wings catch on fire and burn him to death, watch Wilbur get skewered through the throat as he sang, watch a blade cut off Philza’s head. It was worse than any beating he’d ever endured.

So Technoblade stopped disobeying. He fought and he was beaten and he bled. He learned to win faster, learned to exploit weaknesses into utter destruction, learned to be the entertainment they wanted him to be. He learned to be a weapon. He dreaded the day they'd actually use him as one.

. . .

Techno realized the physical abuse wasn’t even the worst of it. It was the damage whatever they were injecting into him was doing to his _mind._

He couldn’t remember the way he used to hold a quill. He couldn’t remember his favorite story from Phil’s big mythology book. He couldn’t remember what the coordinates of the castle were.

Worse, he was forgetting what Tommy’s smile looked like. What Wilbur’s voice sounded like. What color Phil’s eyes were. What fresh air tasted like. What the sun felt like on his skin.

And it _terrified_ him.

He didn’t have cellmates and the surgeons and guards and scientists never spoke to him except to issue one order: “Fight.” The only other creatures he saw were those he fought in the ring. His existence was horribly lonely; he had no one to talk to so only stone walls were there to listen to his words. The heat of the nether burning oppressively through the weak vents was his only reply.

If the fights won’t kill him, he thinks the silence will. He misses Carl.

One day, he was thrown into the ring with a hoglin-piglin hybrid of some sort, with freakishly intelligent eyes and the upright, meaty body of a beast. Its long tusks were tinted yellow and had serrated edges. It glared at him, raising its hooves. 

Honestly, Techno knew he could beat it. He’d fought so many different creatures so often that he was rarely beaten, and he knew the strategies that worked best on types like that. It was a more brutish, more advanced opponent than he was used to, but his mind laid out the battle plan for him like a book.

But there was one thing different now than all the times before. He knew he was forgetting himself. He was forgetting his family; everything important was starting to slip, and he could only see his descent from here. Now, he didn’t even have Carl for company, to keep one another going.

_This must be how Icarus felt when his last feathers melted under the sun. Knowing he could fly no longer, he had no choice but to fall._

So instead of stepping in the blind spot of the hybrid and jumping behind its back, he took a clumsy step to the side that had him flying into the ground from a collision with its large head. His ears rang, and he tasted metal in his mouth. He felt the fight, the blood in the air make his senses heighten and his teeth sharpen, the drugs and modifications stuck in him doing their job. His eyes stung in that way that meant his irises had turned red, and everything he saw spun into staggering detail. His body was ready to attack, his instincts screaming at him to leap up and destroy his assailant. But something had cracked inside of him. So he didn’t fight back.

The crowd howled in outrage at his weakness as he shakily stood again, his opponent looking at him with a mixture of confusion and hesitation. Techno’s reputation was legendary; the creatures he fought were always intelligent enough to understand _that_ much. It probably thought this was some trick, some carefully-laid strategy. It wasn’t. He was just giving up.

When they finally locked in fist-to-fist punches, he let his opponent slam hits into his skull, let him bloody and bruise Techno’s face. It didn’t matter. He was never going to get out of this hellhole and he was forgetting everything he loved.

As he threw a half-hearted punch that landed weakly on his adversary’s jaw, he felt a terrible ripping up his forearm. The sharp tusk of the hybrid had torn through his arm. He watched in a sick fascination as blood poured out, and he stumbled backward. He’d never been injured like this before in the ring. This was new. It didn’t hurt like he thought it would, mostly because he was so used to remaining unscathed other than a few bruises. The crowd roared.

It was then, as he paused to watch gore fall from his own arm, to look at the muscle that had been unearthed, that the hybrid managed to throw him like a cannon shot against the metal walls of the ring. Pain crashed in from everywhere, and every thought was warped. It felt like his skull was being ripped apart.

Technoblade managed to drag his gaze up to look at the hybrid preparing to end the fight. It looked like it was charging, riling its hooves against the ground, preparing to skewer him with those vile tusks against the wall. _This is the end,_ his brain managed to process. _What a shitty way to die_. While fights usually ended when one of the fighters was knocked out, death in the ring was not uncommon. The audience had turned into a dull white noise. His vision flickered. He took a deep breath, what might be his last, then—

**_GET UP._**

Words so clear they might as well have been screamed into his ears. He had no idea where the command had issued from, but it was enough to send him scrambling to his feet. A split second later, an ear splitting _crash_ was heard from behind him. He turned around to see the hybrid smashed into the metal wall, a dark stain of blood like a halo around its dented head. The iron had bent under its charge. Apparently, Technoblade had won, since they were _definitely_ dead. He blinked, and the dusty light sweltering from glowstone lanterns illuminated his arm gushing with blood.

“Well, that’s not good,” he muttered. The ground swayed beneath his bare feet.

The last thing he heard was the ringmaster announcing his victory to a ballistic crowd. The world went dark.

. . .

Technoblade awoke to searing pain, like usual. He didn’t know how long he’d been out. Time was always so _fucking_ hard in literal hell.

This time, though, instead of the ache bursting from the retracting of his enhanced features, it also came from his arm.

He didn’t spare it a glance. He felt the stitches, probably poorly done, in his skin. He remembered the fight.

As he looked at the filthy ceiling, he sighed and prepared to repeat his mantra of everything that should keep him going. But he stopped himself. There was no point. His family would never find him, and he couldn’t escape this living hell on his own. A hopeless feeling creeped into his chest. The harsh ringing in his ears faded to silence.

That’s when he noticed the first voice had started talking.

**_Hello, Technoblade._ **

Techno sat up instantly from the curled position he was in on his cot, looking around. His head swayed with the sudden movement, but his reflexes kept him upright. It sounded just like the command he heard in the ring. _Who just said that_?

His cell remained as hollow as ever, the only reply to his questioning stare the drip of his leaky faucet. An uneasy twinge shuddered down his spine. _Who knew I’d snap so fast? I must be going crazy._ But just as the thought crossed his mind, the voice spoke up again.

**_You’re not crazy. Well, not yet, at least._**

His hands ( _they still looked like hooves to him_ _)_ shot up to his temples, brushing his matted pink hair. “ _What the fuck,_ ” he whispered hoarsely, throat sore from days and days of screaming. It took him three attempts to clear his throat. “What—what are you?”

**_A voice._**

He rolled his eyes, wincing as the movement made his headache pulse. _Well no shit_. A dull noise echoed down the nether brick hall, and he looked fearfully at the shadows outside the iron bars. If someone was listening and thought he was going insane, they’d send him down a level. And based on the snippets of conversation he’d managed to catch, the level below his was as good as being dead. It was where they sent the freaks, the creature-turned-monster abominations that the lab had churned out and deemed too bloodthirsty to put on a good show in the ring.

Once he was sure no one was nearby, he spoke in a low voice again, words scraping out like sandpaper. “How are you in my head? Are you like… my conscience?”

**_I don’t know. I just found my way here. As for being your conscience, hmm… I think not. More like someone to talk to. An advisor. Like your personal confidant, eh? Perhaps a friend._**

Techno shook his head, shakily running a hand through his hair. His throat burned as he croaked out, “Yeah, I’ve gone fucking insane,” then proceeded to break out into a coughing fit. Everything hurt.

As he tried to clear his lungs, the voice said in a tone that sounded like _exasperation,_ of all things:

**_You don’t have to speak out loud to talk to me. We both know that hurts. I’m in your head. I can hear your thoughts, obviously._**

Techno froze, eyes fixed on a long-dried bloodstain on the floor. This was not happening. He tapped his forehead lightly. _Y-you can hear what I think?_

**_Well, yeah. Thought that much was obvious, but I’ll give you the pass since you’re malnourished and dying from an infection. Can’t blame you for being delirious._**

It all took a minute for Techno to register. When it did, he pulled back his sleeve in alarm, staring at the shoddy stitches in the irritated flesh of his arm. Black lines spiderwebbed around the wound out over his elbows and towards his shoulder, darkening his bicep. The wound was a lot bigger, a lot longer than he remembered. _It’s infected?_

**_Blood poisoning, by the looks of it. Remember that book on battlefield injuries you read? I think this one was on page 246. Clearly, you’re not doing too well. That’s something_** **you** ** _should know, because that’s the only way_** **I** ** _know. I can’t actually tell you anything you haven’t learned or seen or thought before._**

Techno didn’t spend much time considering how strange this was, how scary it was that this echo started shuffling through his brain and talking in his head more clearly than any thought he’d had in days, because he was _dying._

Of course it wasn’t the drugs and the beatings and the surgeries, it was the stupid wound that the hybrid had scored because Techno had _let him_ . Fuck. How stupid _was_ he?

**_Not stupid. You knew what you were doing. You wanted out. I get it. But if I’m going to keep you alive around here, we’ve got to get that fixed._ **

****

The voice sounded like a parent scolding a child. Techno snorted, then winced at how much it sounded like a piglin’s snort. A sort of numbness washed over him. _What if I don’t want to be kept alive?_

_How will you ever see Phil or Tommy or Wilbur again if you’re dead? How will you rescue Carl?_

Techno squeezed his hands into fists. _Let’s be honest, Carl’s probably dead._ He feels his throat tighten. _And my family... they left me. They’ll never find me down here. I don’t blame them. I wouldn’t want me around either. They’ve probably given up._

**_We both know that’s not true. They’d never give up. And you aren’t dead, so who’s to say that Carl isn’t? One of the reasons we liked him was because he was so strong. Plus, if you died, how would you be able to live up to the “Technoblade never dies” legend? The other prisoners would be_ ** **so** **_disappointed to hear that the one person proving survival was possible here died._ **

Techno had never thought about it like that. Well, he supposed he had, if the voice was just an echo of his observations and memories and experiences and wishes or whatever. _What can I do? They don’t give us healing supplies down here. The doctors don’t give a shit._

The voice paused for a moment, and he could feel it flipping through his mind like pages in a book. Then, a victorious sort of feeling thrummed in his skull.

**_Then we_** **make** ** _them give a shit._**

. . .

  
  


One of the first things he made sure to do with the voice in his mind was become too valuable and so unforgettable that the doctors could never let him die off. Even though he was literally _dying_ , he made sure to make his next few fights spectacular, finishing off his opponents with electrifying grace and precision, with the voice’s careful guidance.

**_Your condition is probably going to start deteriorating quickly soon. We need to make that obvious after your next fight. They won’t want to lose their favorite toy, eh?_**

So after he K.O’d his next opponent, he made sure to stagger dramatically to the guard by the door, baring his infected arm to the audience. Concerned screeches dumped in from the audience above; he was fun and shiny and they were scared they’d lose their favorite entertainment. He would make _them_ need _him_ for all the revenue he was surely making for his wardens. He won every fight with astounding ferocity. The crowd and the ring loved him, _adored_ him too much to see him disappear.

The surgeons were forced to treat his blood poisoning and stitch up his wound properly. They couldn’t lose their champion. They added antibiotics to the long list of shit they had injected him with.

Eventually, they upgraded him from the small ring to the large arena, where people of high ranks in the Nether could watch and bet on him, more formal than the grimy secrecy that hung over ring battles. The only main differences in the arena were that they gave Techno a sword, and that they _always_ fought to kill. Muscle memory from all his formal training before his imprisonment in the Nether made him even more deadly.

Arena or ring, it didn’t matter. The things, the _monsters_ they sent to fight him could never emerge. Fighting Technoblade was a death sentence. He was a weapon. He was a _god_.

_Somewhere in the hollow depths of his memories, a Greek mythology book laid in Phil’s arms as he read aloud to a young, healthy Technoblade, unmarred by scars and bruises. His dad told him a tale about two giants who piled mountains to the sky and trapped the god of war in a magical jar. No matter how much the god thrashed and roared and fought, he could not get out. The only way he escaped the giants’ grasp was with help from his fellow Olympians._

Techno thought it was fitting this was one of the only myths he could still remember.

Time chugged on insensibly. The sage sentences of the voice melted into shorter ones during battle. It was only a reflection of the thoughts he had, but it was able to put things clearly when he felt himself slipping. It was able to provide him with the anger and energy he needed to survive the ring, even as his condition worsened. It kept him going.

He fought. He won. He went to the lab. He came out feeling more like the monster they wanted him to be. The voice stayed and distracted him the best it could. When he caught his reflection in the water bucket in the corner of his cell, his ears were pointed at the tips, and his bottom teeth were long and stuck out a but from his lower lip. His eyes were a dull crimson. So far from the blue they used to be. But blue was a color that only existed in the Overworld. He wasn’t sure if blue was a real color at all, despite growing up in the magical hues of lapis in the Arctic. It was only _right_ that his eyes were red, honestly; he was now a creature belonging to the Nether. Something created in hell.

He hated his reflection.

He was trapped in a desperate cycle, the voice in his skull the only thing keeping him alive. He wanted to stop, wanted to let a fight turn against him take him out forever. But the voice, issuing commands in his battles, fought for him.

**_Just a little longer._**

**_Hit his jaw._**

**_Good, Techno._**

**_Slice at his ribs._**

**_You’ll get out of here soon._**

**_Keep fighting._ **

Because _one day_ the people running the facility he was trapped in would slip. One day he’d get his chance to get out. Until then, he had to try to stay sane but plan like a madman. It was not easy. He felt himself becoming more and more of an animal every time he woke up; he had no idea how long he’d been down here. Luckily, the voice was always there to help him organize his thoughts and keep track of stray ideas that might help in the future. It asked him questions they both already knew the answer to, and helped him think of things that weren’t death and brutality.

Eventually, he started to relish each victory he achieved. He smiled and raised his arms above his head as the crowd of Nether creatures cheered his name, the name the announcer had given to him after that first fight he came out drenched in blood. _The Blood God._ The voice did not discourage him from enjoying his wins.

After one particularly barbaric fight, when Techno was being led back to his cell, he spoke up about it.

_I know, like, you’re supposed to be keeping me alive and sane or whatever_ , he thought as they turned the corner away from the ring, _so why don’t you keep me from feeling good about the fights?_

The voice, of course, knew what he meant.

**_Well, it’s something that keeps you motivated, for one. We both want you to keep winning so you don’t literally_ ** **die.** **_And two, well… I guess we both enjoy it too much. Being the best. Reminds us of training with the castle guards and Phil—_ **

****

Techno slammed a mental wall down. He’d listen to most anything the voice had to say, but he wouldn’t let them talk about his family. He couldn’t afford to think about them, couldn’t afford to _hope_ , because down here hope got you killed faster than any fistfight would. He walked the rest of the way in silence.

They arrived back at the cell. The guard didn’t even have to shove him in; they knew he wouldn’t bother trying to slip away. That fact about himself concerned him a lot more than anything else. He pushed the thought to the side. Laying on his pathetic stone cot, he decided to ask the voice a genuine question. Something he didn’t know the answer to. He wanted to get thoughts about his family, his… old life out of his head. He let loose a long sigh. _I’ve never asked—do you have a name?_ The voice seemed surprised, then pleased.

**_I can’t believe it took you this long to ask._**

The world around him spun a bit, a side effect of constant malnutrition. Techno rolled his eyes, hands digging into a savage bruise on the side of his arm. The pain helped him focus. _Sorry, just never crossed my mind. You know that, obviously. Ha. But for real, what is it?_

If the voice could smile, it did.

**_You can call me Chat._ **

* * *

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since it's hard to describe Techno's looks without it seeming too awkward, I'll explain the hair and some of his features to clear things up.  
> He doesn't get any baths, and he won't waste his water to clean himself. Since an effect of the drugs was the color leeching out of his hair until it was white, when it gets bloody, it dries a pinkish-red. So his hair is still kinda white and dirty in some places, but where blood (both his own and that of his enemies) gets in his hair, it makes it look pink. Also his hair is just around shoulder-length right now :) The eyes in the past were a 'sometimes-red-but-not-always,' but now since he's fighting all the time and constantly surrounded by blood, they're usually red. His canine teeth poke out at the bottom a little (there's a lot of fanart that have that design and I love it), and his ears are pointy. He getting strong so he has some muscle, but the food they give him is crap and he's malnourished so he can't get too strong. His senses and energy only spike when he's in a fight, though, like a rush of adrenaline. It makes him a better fighter than he already is, so essentially he's incredible at fighting. 
> 
> I HOPE YOU LIKED IT PLEASE LEAVE A COMMENT IF YOU DID BECAUSE I WILL CRY IF THIS CHAPTER FLOPS
> 
> ALSO THANK YOU TO Peanut_Brains for helping me sm with this behemoth by editing it and beta reading it <3
> 
> LOOK AT THAT ART. LOOK AT IT. IM CRYING ITS SO GORGEOUS ; - ;
> 
> THANKS FOR READING IMMA GO SLEEP FOR SEVERAL YEARS


	6. The Arena

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is no sky and there are no stars. Hell continues, and Techno feels himself slipping.
> 
> Then the cycle breaks, but not in the way he'd hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to be clear, the scene last chapter where we saw what was going on in the Arctic did not occur at the same time as the Techno POV. That scene happened 6 months after his kidnapping (around December, which is when the constellation that Philza was telling Wil and Tommy about, Perseus, appears, and it’s 6 months after June 1st, which is Technoblade’s real birthday. In this fic, it’s Wilbur’s birthday too, since they do be twins). Anyway, I won’t reveal how long Techno has been down there just yet, but I thought I’d let you know to avoid any confusion. 
> 
> Anyway, EVERYONE THANK MY FRIEND PEANUT_BRAINS FOR BEING THE BEST EVER AND HELPING ME FIX THIS DISASTER CHAPTER INTO SOMETHING COHERENT. <3 <3 <3
> 
> Enjoy the chapter! :D Leave a comment below about what u think ;3
> 
> ALSO PEEP DE FANART AT DE END !!!
> 
> TW: Fighting, blood, injury, referenced torture, self harm, drugs, panic attack, nightmares

* * *

More often than not, Chat had to drag up his old memories for him. They were getting distant, slowly being replaced by the hurtful memories of an operating table and blood in sand. He had completely forgotten what food other than rotten flesh in watered down mushroom stew tasted like. He wasn’t sure there ever _was_ food other than that. The world was a monotonous cycle of screams and fights and blood. Winning fights was the only time when he felt something _positive_. The guards talked a little more to him now, mostly to tell him how fast to end the fight to make the organization they worked for more money. Sometimes, if he was lucky, they’d tell him about his opponent ahead of time, or even give the occasional “Good luck.”

Bastards.

**_As if you need it,_** Chat would always reply to that.

Techno acted like he was beaten, like he had accepted this fate _(because he_ definitely _had not accepted it, no, even if he hardly tried to stop himself from becoming a tool for profit and gain anymore. No matter what he thought to himself, he_ had not _accepted it_ ). What he was waiting for, no matter how long it took, was the break in the cycle. If the guards made one slip, he was gone. If they forgot to lock his chains when he came back from fighting, he’d knock their stars out. He knew he could; the fight was in his _veins_ now, drumming with power even when the presence of blood or an opponent didn’t awaken his improved senses. Even though he was only _~~fifteen~~ ~~sixteen~~ ~~seventeen~~_ a teenager _(?),_ he’d developed enough skill in the arena to crush just about anything that came at him in the sandy stadium. If he had a full stomach and hospitable conditions, he’d be literally unstoppable.

But he didn’t; he was given his pathetic gruel and hardly enough water and his wounds were poorly stitched and never healed right. Though he’d adapted to the heat and the oppressive ashy air a long time ago, that didn’t stop it from keeping him weak, from making him get shortness of breath faster than anyone else down here. That’s how they wanted him, in case he tried anything. Chat told him as much every time he felt like lashing out at his captors just for the hell of it, telling him to save his strength. But he’d eventually run out of that, too.

At least he wasn’t bored. A new opponent every ~~day?~~ time he fought always kept him on edge, made his sense of strategy evolve and expand. Some sick part of him _loved_ the victories he achieved, _relished_ in the sound of his opponent’s body hitting the floor. Another, more human, part of him screamed in horror every time. Chat wasn’t really any help with that.

**_Whatever keeps us going, Technoblade._**

****

Sometimes he’d finish his fights swaying on his feet, struggling to remain conscious, other times filled with energy. Every wound buried in his skin, every punch or slice from a sword electrified his senses, drew a bloodthirstiness out that he didn’t like to think about. Sometimes, he’d just stare at the bloodied form of his opponent after his triumph, and far away words would echo in his head. Words from a well-loved story in great book of myths and monsters read by a father he wasn’t sure cared for him anymore:

_“Why, O Cadmus, stare at the serpent slain? You also, some day, will be a serpent for men to stare at.”_

Because there would be a time that it would be him on that sandy floor, bled out to death or skewered through the heart. No matter what Chat told him, he couldn’t keep this up forever. Someone would come and kill him, and Techno thinks that in that moment he would have fully become a monster. Not when he was doing the killing, but when he was killed. That would be the day he gave in.

. . .

Finally, there was a break in the cycle. But it wasn’t right; it was not the mistake or slip-up he was looking for, the careless guard or broken gear turning the gates in the arena. The cycle broke by doubling the security on him and getting him dragged from his cell a short while after his latest fight. _This is annoying,_ he thought. _I literally_ just _split my knuckle on that stupid wither skeleton thing. Not ideal._

Chat thought otherwise.

**_Techno, screw your stupid knuckle, this could be our_** **chance.**

_One, my knuckle is_ not _stupid. You don’t even have knuckles. Shut up. Two, we don’t even know where we’re going, and I’m exhausted. There’s twice as many people on us now, too. I don’t see any good escape routes, and we’d need to heavily rely on surprise. But that’s not possible, since they’re clearly expecting us to try and escape._

**_Then we both just pay attention. Look for escape routes. Listen. We didn’t end up with the crazy hearing and eyesight for nothing._**

Techno huffed, then winced as he was sharply pulled around a corner by the piglin holding his shackles. 

_I was given the ‘crazy hearing and eyesight’ to be used as sick entertainment, Chat. But I appreciate your ability to look at things with the glass half full. Not that we’ve had a glass half full of water in… a really long time. But still._

Chat didn’t say anything back, so Techno kept his eyes peeled and ears perked. The bustle of soldiers keeping him in bounds blocked a significant part of his view, but he saw when the primarily blackstone hallways turned into Nether brick, saw when the poorly scattered glowstone lamps turned into deckled out light fixtures above them. _Fancy._

**_Okay, what else do you see?_**

An odd insignia dotted intervals along the wall. Quartz pillars lofted to the ceiling at each intersection of hallways. The group approached an iron door, which was flanked by two other guards, who looked far more composed and were even more heavily armed than the ones holding him. _Yep. Definitely fancy._

Luckily, Chat had the mental stability _(Did that mean he did too? He doubted it meant that. Chat was way too intelligent, too omniscient to be solely a creation based on his thoughts. He didn’t feel mentally stable at all.)_ to perform _some_ inductive reasoning on his behalf.

**_Increased guards, spontaneous visit to your cell, fancy surroundings? I think we’re about to meet a high-ranking official or something. Maybe the main warden, or something of that sort? Heh, good luck with that. Bet whoever you’re about to meet is a complete nerd. We should make fun of them when you get in there. Or kill them._**

****

Another good thing about Chat was that it helped him smile when he was about to enter terrifying situations. It told him jokes before he had to go in for his injections, for hours of pain and screaming until his vocal chords were raw. It helped him think about his family when he wanted to give up. It spurred his desire for revenge whenever he wanted to let the guards beat him to a pulp and end his suffering. It made him not die. Chat was nice like that.

The guard holding his chains in the front nodded to someone on his left, and suddenly a blade was pressed to his throat. That sort of gesture had stopped phasing Techno after all the times his throat had almost been slashed in the arena. He struggled not to roll his eyes.

The guard looked at him, hitting him with a sharp glare and a scowl. “You will not pull anything right now while I’m knocking, and you will not pull anything when you get in that room. Your throat will be cut faster than you can blink, okay, _Blood God?”_

He said Techno’s arena name in a mocking tone, which pissed him off more. He didn’t mind the title too much, really; it insinuated that he was powerful, that he could get control, that he couldn’t die, like the rumors that flitted between the prisoners who could talk to one another said. Since his room was sealed shut in order to give him water in the blisteringly hot climate, he was unable to speak or hear through the walls. If Carl was anywhere near his cell, he’d never know; the only prisoners he saw were the same ones he saw on his march to the arena, and on said marches he caught whispers of the legend he’d built for himself. They never said _Technoblade_ , only the _Blood God._ Which was good. Because he didn’t want anyone to see what Prince Technoblade had turned into.

Technoblade smirked, feeling his pointy teeth poke his upper lip, and nodded. The guard let go of his chains, and he was so, _so_ tempted to make a break down the empty hallway to the left. But, there was a knife pressed to his throat, a mental nudge from Chat reminded him. Plus, there were, like, eleven other guard _s._ The increased number stoked the decimated pieces of whatever pride he had left. After a knock to the door, the piglin stepped back, and the hinges swung open. 

Suddenly, he was shoved forward, and his knees buckled from the unexpected pressure. He struggled to his feet, wincing at the loud noise of the door slamming behind him. It’s sharp and final and clean, nothing like the roars and dull white noise and screams he usually hears.

He found himself in an _office_ , of all things. Two chairs rested in front of an obsidian desk, which gleamed purple under the light of a glowstone chandelier hanging above. Books were stacked neatly on the table, and an inkpot with a quill laid by a half-written piece of parchment. Seated in an opulent chair behind the desk was a tall piglin wearing spectacles and a dark suit. He had human hands, as opposed to the tiered hooves piglins typically had. Techno blinked at him. Then his eyes locked on the item hanging in the back of the room. _A clock._

**_A CLOCK._**

****

****

_Time_. One of the most important things he could not find a way to grasp in this hellhole. He could find the date, the year, maybe, _anything._ It was indescribably important to him, but he didn’t know why, he just needed to know _something_ for certain. His hopes were dashed as he realized that the clock only had a day and night indicator on it; there was no way to tell the date. Apparently, it was a quarter of the way to sundown. But knowing that made Techno feel a tiny, tiny bit better.

The well-dressed piglin was staring at him, looking slowly between Technoblade and the clock with a snobby, amused glance. Techno instantly hated him, not that he remotely liked anyone in this screwed up facility. _Except Carl_ , he mused, then hammered the thought down. A hand was waved at the two chairs seated on the opposite side of the desk. Techno sat slowly, warily. He wished his hands were unbound.

“Hello there, Blood God. Welcome to my office,” the piglin said. His voice sounded stuffy and crass. Techno just glared at him. He didn’t like talking much. His company sighed and leaned back in his chair, the dense air of arrogance practical dripping off of him.

“I’ve received lots of interesting news on you, dear friend. I’ll be honest, I didn’t actually think much of the experiment that was performed on you when I signed it for approval. I didn’t really expect it to work; but hey, I guess they stuffed you up with drugs enough that _something_ happened. Your record in the ring and the arena is rather infamous.” He looked like he was waiting for Techno to jump in, to add some comment on anything he was saying. _Please. As if he’s telling me anything I don’t already know. Apart from him approving my torture, but I already wanted him dead before I knew that._

Techno just let his gaze drift around the office; Chat could pay attention to this one-sided conversation while he tried to find any clues, any information that might help him. The walls were relatively blank except for a dramatic portrait of a wither, and the side tables merely had potted mushrooms as decoration.

The piglin seemed irritated that Techno wasn’t responding. “ _Well_ , I’ve called you into my office today with a little request for you.” _As if it’s a request. I’m not stupid, idiot,_ Techno said silently.

“You see, we have a very special visitor coming to watch one of _your_ arena fights. To see if our facility here is a good investment. I wanted to _ensure_ that you would make your next fight as glorious and exciting as it gets. Pull out all the stops.” His voice was slimy and remindeds Technoblade of touching the moist, dirty surface of the blackstone above the lava sewer in his old cell next to Carl’s. Carl would’ve called this guy a prick with a stick up his ass. The thought, though bittersweet, made Techno let out a rueful huff of laughter.

**_Bad move, Techno._**

****

Hands tightening around the edge of his desk, the fancy piglin’s eyes narrowed. “I assure you that we have ways of making you do what we want here. I received reports that you responded _especially_ well to the hallucinogens you were injected with as punishment for misbehaving. We can make that feeling last for what seems like _lifetimes,_ if we wish.” 

Techno paled his fists tight. He couldn’t go through seeing what he saw again. He just couldn’t. He’d lose his mind even with Chat’s help. They could beat and torture and string him up in any way as their little warrior puppet, but he could not bear to watch his family members die in the hellscape of fear the drugs induced. It felt too real, and lately, even with the help of Chat, it’s getting harder and harder to distinguish between the horrors of dreams and reality. Techno looked down.

“There’s two other things you ought to know about your opponent; one, he’s the champion of our visitor from the Overworld, so he’s better than any random abomination you’ve faced, and two, you aren’t allowed to kill him.”

**_What?_**

****

“What?” Techno’s own voice is a creak. It bothers him that he’s more concerned about that than anything right now. He brushed the thought aside.

“Why not?” he asked incredulously.

Speaking felt odd. It was the first time he’d said anything aloud to someone but Carl in a long time; he hadn’t really talked other than grunting to Chat when he had wanted to listen to something other than his own screams or the roar of the arena. But actually communicating with someone else was so different; his voice sounded monotone, low. Like someone had been scraping rocks down his throat. He couldn’t remember what he used to sound like, what the fluctuations of his voice were, if he had an accent of some sort. He’s forgetting more and more and it’s so scary he thinks he might be sick.

The piglin gave him a condescending smile, and a snort of a laugh. 

“So it’s true. You really _are_ as bloodthirsty as they say. Hm.” Techno flinched. He hadn’t meant it like that. He was more interested in the fact that someone was bringing a fighter that he could pass information to. But it was probably better if this guy took it for a hunger for murder, he supposed. The well-dressed creature toyed with his quill, then stood to slowly pace dramatically gaze at the painting across the room. Had Techno been in the ring, his good eyesight would’ve kicked in, and he could have seen what was on the piece of paper. But there was no blood here, in this fancy room. “Because it would be a rude gesture of hospitality and partnership to let one of our little monsters rip up the visitor’s little friend. I don’t think it would show, ah, our goodwill.”

In his skull, Chat was whirring away with thoughts and ideas about the champion and possible escape, but Techno _really_ wanted to know what was on that letter the piglin was writing. He had to keep him talking.

****

**_Play along with the bloodthirsty bit. That’ll buy us time._**

****

Chat was smart. Techno always hated the characters in stories who were too stupid to lie or use false assumptions as a tool. His throat ached as he spoke up. 

“What if I can’t help myself?” A stupid question, because Techno was a graceful and precise fighter, when he wanted to be; but a dark sliver of fear slipped into his head. _It’s valid, really; I don’t know if I would’ve been able to stop myself in the past if they told me to stop in the middle of a fight. I’m afraid I’m losing control._

Chat said nothing to that. He still couldn’t see what was on the table; he was so desperate for more information, because this could be his only way out. If nothing else, he might see what the date was today.

“Well, if you can’t stop yourself, either someone will step in and drag you out before you can do lasting damage, or if you kill him, we’ll stick needles in you and beat you until you forget your own name. How’s that?”

Techno figured as much. An idea popped into his head.

**_That’s pushing it. Techno, I don’t think you should—_**

****

It was too late. As the piglin let him feel the ‘gravity’ of the ‘threat’ or something, Techno sank his sharp nails into his wrists, mostly hidden by his shackles if he shifted them. The hurt hardly bothered him like it should have. Drops of blood trickled out, and he felt his senses sharpen, energy flowing to his muscles, the fight dancing through his mind. The sharp pain was _new_ . Something he hadn’t tried yet. _Why didn’t I think of this sooner? This could be a way to overpower a guard if we get the chance._

**_No, it’s not, because you’d bleed yourself dry before you could get anywhere. This is_** **bad** ** _and_** **not** ** _the right way to find our way out. Just—just look at the paper while you can. But don’t do this again, Technoblade, it isn’t good for you._**

****

Techno sighed internally, but he had to keep the conversation moving. His vocal chords burned. 

“I suppose you won’t tell me what kind of being I’m fighting; I assume someone who’s rather pugnacious if he wants to fight me for fun, and skilled enough to believe they can win. Am I supposed to just go to impress your potential benefactor looking all lackluster?” he asked, and leaned forward slightly. An understatement—he looked like literal trash, but it gave him the chance to glance at the parchment. The paper said some names he didn’t recognize and mentioned the arena and apparently Techno, in very vague terms that he was the fighter they’d prepared. As his eyes glossed over the date (which had no year), before he could register what it might mean, the piglin responded.

“I’m impressed, _Technoblade_. After all this time, you still remember big pretty words. Good on you.”

Techno froze, his heart hammering in his chest. He hadn’t heard anyone use his name since he’d gotten here except Carl and Chat in his head; not a single guard, not a single prisoner. Even in the rumors that spun in his wake, people always just said “ _he_ never dies,” or “the _Blood God_ never dies.” Never Technoblade. No one was supposed to have that name in their head because it was _his_ and no one else’s. The shock must’ve been written across his cut-up face, because the piglin let out an ugly bark of laughter.

“Oh, Prince Technoblade, of course _I_ know who _you_ are. I know every name that enters our labs and fighting shows; I’d be especially silly not to keep an eye on the ex-prince of the Antarctic Empire, hmm?”

**_Okay, we need to get out, like, really, really soon._**

****

_No shit._

His head was still reeling with the fact that someone knew who he was. Of course someone had to, they didn’t kidnap him for nothing. It was a cataclysm of information pounding in his tired head. Not to mention the date on the paper and the fact that people from the _Overworld_ were coming. He just stared at the piglin in shock.

“Well, to answer your question, _your Highness_ , we’ll fix you up enough.” Leaning over, a hand grabbed a lock of his hair. Techno flinched, then cursed himself for showing weakness. “You’re rather well known for the whole look you’ve got here. Pink hair. Scarred face. Kind of freakish, I’d say. I suppose we’ll have to give you something so your hair starts growing pink, because it seems blood isn’t the best dye, no?” He patted Techno’s cheek, then grimacing at the layer of filth that stuck to his fingers, wiped the dirt off on a handkerchief. The prince struggled not to roll his eyes again. _Pompous prick._

Something was off about this whole thing. They’d never preened and dolled him up before; if anything, his unruly appearance added to the effect he had. Either they _really_ wanted to impress someone, or… they were dressing him for slaughter. Delivering a meal on a shiny silver plate. He gripped the edge of his seat, steadying himself. Even if he was trapped here, he was still powerful. He could survive. He could fight dirty and he could win. Chat was leafing through his thoughts, pulling out ideas and stringing together a plan. The piglin was leering at him still, so he looked away. But his company wasn’t finished, it seemed.

“You know, it was rather disappointing when we found out they were bringing _you_ here instead of the little winged one. We like new things, a challenge. It was rather displeasing that they snatched the son of a winged hybrid with no presenting traits. But you’ve really proved yourself, prince. You’ve become quite valuable. I’ll send someone to fix you up soon. Good luck at your fight; and make sure to remember, _no killing,”_ he said with a snicker and a wink, his ugly snout wrinkling.

Horror bolted through his veins.

_Tommy. They were going to take_ Tommy _and do this to him. He’s so, so little. There’s no_ way _he could have lasted. Holy-- They were going to_ ruin him _the way they’ve ruined me. What the actual_ hell. _Dear god._

As the well-dressed piglin called for the guards and Techno was led back to his cell, something stirred in Techno’s chest. For the first time since being brought here, he was glad that he had been taken. Better him than his family. If he couldn’t do anything else good, at least he could protect them. The thought almost made him smile. But he didn’t..

  
Because the date on the page was April 9th. And even though there was no date, and maybe he’d missed one or a thousand already, it was still Tommy’s birthday. He wasn’t there to see it. He wasn’t there to celebrate and he’d never apologised. 

As the iron door to his room slams shut, he murmurs in a broken voice,

“Happy birthday, Toms.” 

. . .

The next day, he wakes up with pink hair. He’d been brought back to his cell for what couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, then taken back out and down into a room next to the lab. They stuck the knockout drug into his neck; it didn’t work very well anymore. While giving him his usual incisions and shit, they also dyed his hair and he heard them murmuring about how whatever ‘gene transplant’ they had done would make it keep growing pink. But maybe he heard them wrong, because their words were just slipping in the pockets between him waking up from screaming so loud and slipping into sweet oblivion.

They come and give him new clothes, which feel horribly foreign on his skin. It’s a simple white shirt that doesn’t fit right, fresh bandage straps for his forearms, a dark cloak, and long black pants. The too-big boots are high quality; he knows for sure they’ll take all this back when he’s done with the battle. It’s not much, but for this place, it’s practically a king’s getup. They must really want something out of the people visiting. He steals a glance at himself in his barely-full water pail.

**_Looking good, Blood God._**

****

Techno froze, his hands stilled in the middle of attaching the stupid hooded cloak they wouldn’t let him go without. His heart stuttered in his chest. _Don’t call me that. Not you. Not ever._

**_I’m sorry, I was just—_**

****

_I don’t CARE, Chat! Because if you call me that name that means I’m starting to think of_ myself _as the Blood God instead of Technoblade and I CANNOT_ _handle that, Chat. I’m still Technoblade. I’m still Technoblade. I’m still Technoblade prince of—_

His thoughts splinter. He didn’t realize that _tears_ , of all things, were falling down his face. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried; all he knew was that he hadn’t felt this emotional in a very, very long time. The tears were a waste of what little water he had in him, but they didn’t stop. Chat stayed quiet.

_Please Chat, I can’t do this if you can’t keep me thinking of me as Technoblade. If I become the Blood God, then I’ve lost_ everything _. I won’t need rescuing or to break out if I become_ that _because it makes me as good as dead if I’m not me anymore. My name is the_ one _thing they can’t take from me, not when they’ve taken everything else. Please help me hold onto it. Help me hold onto it._

**_Of course I will, Technoblade._**

****

Some of the coiled tension leaves Techno’s body. _Thanks._ Suddenly, the door swings open and he jumps back. A guard stands with something in his hands. “Turn around. Now.” Unquestioning compliance has kept him alive this long, so he does. Something is pulled over his face, and suddenly pain erupts from the never-fully-healing cuts around his cheekbones and eyes. He tries to struggle, but there’s a _click_ and the door is slammed shut again. The fiery pain sizzling up his face almost makes him miss the guard’s words. “Get sleep. Be ready to put on a show.” 

Chat has perked back up after being cowed, gently calming him as his fingers scrabble to rip off whatever smooth thing is on his face. He can still see fine, but it’s through some small holes. The hurt subsides enough for him to roll over and look in his water bin.

It’s a leathery pig mask, one that completely covers his face above his lips. It’s modeled after a piglin’s countenance; for a moment, he sees Carl. It’s really quite hideous, and the leather material chafes against his sensitive skin. His throat burns with what might have been tears in another world.

_So this is why they weren’t worried about me being recognized or me trying to get someone to listen to me. I’ll be just like all of the other piglins in this joint. They won’t think twice about the mask._

Techno rests his head down on his stone cot. The clasp that he can’t undo is uncomfortable at the back of his neck, but he’s always tired so it wasn’t hard to start falling asleep. As he drifted off, he had the rare dream of his family, cheering his name as he won some sparring contest with a guard. Fighting had been so innocent back then. But now the days and nights are an inseparable darkness and the stars and their stories have left him. There are hardly any good dreams like this to dress himself up in and hold close anymore.

The prince does not know what he has become. He can only hope to be remade.

. . .

Eventually, guards come for him and don’t so much as glance at the new clothes and new mask. There are no curious looks or muttered ‘good lucks’ now. _Huh. So it’s_ that _important._

The shouts swirl through the walls. Today’s fight was definitely going to be a sight to see; he’d never heard, never felt an audience so alive. Even before he and the guard got to the gate, Techno felt his features begging to sharpen. He didn’t even need to start fighting, didn’t even need the scent of blood to do it anymore; it was on the command of his feelings. His canines sharpened and slightly elongated, his hearing expanding in his pointed ears, the foul smell of the sandy arena suddenly became more noticeable as his senses improved. He felt the muscles in his arms tense and his nails suddenly felt like small knives as they dug into his palm. A beast they wanted, and a beast they’d get, no matter what he did. He couldn’t control his enhancements spiking up with the adrenaline rush of battle. Apparently he looked like some creature, too, with the stupid fucking pig mask covering his scars and his human face. He squared his shoulders. All he had to do was find a way to send a message to whoever was watching from the Overworld.

“With a _stunning_ two hundred thirty victories in the arena, this pink-haired fighter has made a name for himself with his _striking brutality_ and the alacrity with which he finishes his fights. I wouldn’t put it past him to play dirty in today’s brawl, folks! He’s got an unquenchable thirst for blood that cannot be tamed. His opponent’s got a tough one comin’ at him!”

_Two hundred and thirty victories._ Two hundred and thirty victories _. My god._

The crowd roared for Technoblade, chanting and jeering for their Blood God. For the creature they’d made him into. And he hated it because no matter how he felt, his primal instincts upped his adrenaline and made him excited, too. Neither he nor Chat can quite drag up the memory of watching the festival sport gladiator games he went to as a kid, but he remembers the feeling, the exhilaration of seeing two lethal opponents lining up. In all of his time here, the one thing he’d learned about memories was that even if he forgot the details, the feeling never went away. Like his countless ‘improvement sessions;’ he can’t remember each one, but the pain surrounding the moment is easy to uncover. Suddenly the mission to send a message somehow seems a lot more hopeless. His head involuntarily drooped under the unfamiliar weight of the mask.

**_So many simps in the audience today._ **

Techno snickered lightly. _Thanks for that one, Chat._

**_Techno, we’re probably going up against something harder than usual today. If he’s coming here to fight_** **you** ** _for fun, they’ve gotta be pretty good._**

****

_So?_

**_Just… be careful. And remember, don’t lose yourself today. Hang in there. This could be our shot._**

****

****

The warrior huffed, but didn’t argue. Chat was just a reflection of his subconscious ( _he was sure there was a little more to it, though; sometimes it knew things he certainly didn’t_ ), so if it was worried about him throwing caution to the wind, he’d worry too. Still, what creature could come out of the Overworld that was worse than anything down here? Maybe some creeper hybrid or spider, maybe an enderman hybrid; those could live in both the Nether and the Overworld. That would be new. Whatever facility he was in must be linked to them through their sick sadistic experiments of making twisted up creations, or the Overworld group didn’t know what was going on here. He hoped for the latter.

The announcer’s voice echoed throughout the chamber, and the crowd fell silent.

“Now, everyone, we’ve got an exciting one for you today! In _honor_ of our _esteemed_ guests from the Overworld, we bring you… _THE BLOOD GOD!_ ”

The gate creaked as it rose. The audience went ballistic with sick glee. The guard didn’t even have to nudge him before Technoblade stormed into the pit, his blood riling in his veins. This was his chance. He either had to find a way to show the visitor it was him, the prince, (unlikely considering the fact that he looked nothing like he used to), or impress them enough that they’d take him as, well, a new champion or something, and he’d be free. Those were his best bets. He scanned the audience in the grand bleachers behind the reinforced metal webbing above him with red eyes, looking for an Overworld person who stood out. He couldn’t spot anyone out of the ordinary Nether folk, so he turned his focus to the gate at the opposite end of the arena.

He found himself oddly nostalgic for the proximity of the dirty ring.

The announcer’s voice boomed over the noise once more. “Aaaaand on the other end, a new challenger approaches! Folks, all the way from the _Overworld,_ I present to you… _—”_

**_Uh oh._**

Techno’s heart caught in his throat. He didn’t hear whatever brash title the wicked ringmasters had called his challenger as blood roared in his ears. From the shadows of the doorway, something he’d never fought before, not in the ring or the arena, stepped out. His opponent stared at him from across the field. They had a green hooded top on, fingerless gloves that held an axe, and a shield strung to their back. The glowstone lights reflected off of a white porcelain mask with a silly, almost creepy smile engraved on it.

Even from here, Techno could tell.

It was a _human_.

* * *

GUYS MY GIFTED SERVER MEMBERS HAVE ~BLESSED~ ME ONCE MORE WITH FANART ; - ; LOOOOOOK

TECHNO IN THE ARENA LAST CHAPTER **by the incredible @p1dge0n on TikTok**

Techno looking at his reflection in his water bucket **by the amazing @dr_Alvi_ on Twitter:**

YOU ALL ARE SO VERY TALENTED AND I AM BLOWN. AWAY. THANK YOU THANK YOU ; - ;

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HOPE YOU ENJOYED :D 
> 
> get excited for this new character next chapter ;) 
> 
> THE FANART ; - ; GUYSSSSSSSS <3 <3 <3 Y'ALL INCREDIBLE
> 
> Please leave a comment about what you thought!! If there is anything that is confusing or if there are any theories you have, put 'em below! It means the world to me <3


	7. The Duel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Technoblade fights his equal, looking for an opening, a way out. Just when things are starting to look up, everything comes crashing down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS HELP
> 
> I REALIZED THAT I VIOLATE THE GENEVA CONVENTION IN LIKE EVERY SINGLE WAY IN THIS FIC ASDKSJNFBHJD
> 
> I'm still traumatized from Tommy's last lore streams and the overwhelming amount of cannonical angst. Sorry for the wait, and I apologize to the angst gods. I forgot to offer the angst at the beginning of last chapter. I offer double to them now and beg for forgiveness. 
> 
> Enjoy the chapter ;)
> 
> ANGST FOR THE ANGST GODS  
> ANGST FOR THE ANGST GODS
> 
> TW: Fighting, Blood, Violence, Injury, you know the drill this is a really dark fic

* * *

He’d been running on the assumption that whatever he fought would be just as twisted as the experiments here were. That it would be some monstrosity, not a _person_ who was completely human and had no animalistic features at all. Something like him. Usually, thinking that whatever he was fighting wasn’t a truly sentient human made it easier to fight, to kill. Thinking that _he_ himself wasn’t human made it easier. Nothing he’d battled had ever been as sentient as Carl, as humane. It was the only way to remain distant from the bloodshed beneath his hands.

But this was a full-fledged human, with slightly tan, calloused hands and blonde hair peeking out of his green hood. He couldn’t pretend they were a beast. Not this time. How was he supposed to focus on getting the visitor a message when there was some dude that was definitely really smart or really stupid if he was fighting Techno standing here? They’d notice him trying to do anything out of the ordinary.

**_Okay, this is just a curveball. Remember, though, we aren’t supposed to kill them. We don’t_ ** **have** **_to kill them. Just fight. Just recalculate._ **

****

_Easy for you to say._

**_I know. I’m sorry. We’ll find a way to get through this._ **

The announcer was still describing how fights worked in the arena to the crowd, and thousands of eyes pinned him to the sandy floor from above. Techno grit his teeth, wincing as the mask dug into his face wounds. _So that’s another reason why they bolted this thing to me. To make_ me _seem like the monster. So this guy won’t think I’m human._ Chat hummed, then an idea struck them both at the same time.

_What if we try to give_ them _the message? The guards can’t stop us from talking to each other, and they won’t be able to hear anything over the crowd. We just have to keep control of the fight for long enough to get a few words out._

**** **_Risky, but worth a shot. Maybe they’ll listen, if they aren’t a sadistic psychopath who knows exactly what’s going on and might be willing to help. It’s better than our other plan of running to the audience and trying to shout to the person from the Overworld. That one would probably have us dead or beaten into oblivion._ ** Chat seemed to chuckle. **_They thought they were making it harder for you, giving you the mask, making you fight a person._ **

****

_Heh. How wrong they were._

The bell to begin sparring didn’t ring right away; of course, they wanted a show, wanted to amp the tension up. The masked man started walking towards him, axe in hand. It would’ve been a menacing sight had Techno not had to look at far scarier things like his own reflection.

_“Unrecognizable,”_ he’d heard the main doctor say to the well-dressed piglin after they’d finished the hair-gene-surgery. The announcer in the arena was shouting something about the challenger approaching him, listing his lengthy list of accomplishments and renown. Chat kindly blotted it out, keeping him focused on his mission. _Talk to him, send a message, or impress._ He did manage to catch the title adorned to his foe, _Dream._ He idly wondered where that name came from.

Finally, he stood at least fifteen feet away from the man. Now that they were up closer and Techno’s eyesight was sharpening with the pull of the fight, he could see the human a little more clearly. While his face was covered, he seemed young, in his late teens. Techno wondered if they were the same age, then remembered he didn’t know how old he was anymore.

The piglin mask that covered half of his face dug into his scars painfully. Echoing throughout the bleachers and excited audience, the announcer’s voice began to count down for the start. Anticipation coiled like a spring in his chest. He had to stay in control, had to find a balance in their fight to talk.

The bell rang, and instantly an axe came swinging for his face.

Techno leapt back, holding up his sword to knock the blow to the side. As soon as he pulled his weapon back, his opponent struck again, the blade narrowly missing his neck.

_I thought we both weren’t allowed to kill each other?_

As he tried to switch from defensive to offensive tactics, a dark thought crossed his mind, and Chat had the lovely idea to say it loudly in his head.

****

**_Maybe_ ** **you** **_were told not to kill him. Maybe this battle is a freebee for him. You heard how many titles or whatever he has. This could be the facility’s gift to Dream’s benefactor. Letting him kill the Nether’s #1 champion for an alliance or something._ **

****

Metal clashed, and sparks hissed into the thick air. _Sometimes I wish you weren’t so smart, Chat._

**_You always forget this is all you, not jus—_ **

**_Feint right._ **

**_Duck._ **

**_I’m just a reflection of your thoughts._ **

**_Sidestep._ **

****

Dream was _good_ . Better than anything he’d battled down here, likely because apart from Techno, no one had formal training to rely on. The masked man before him was from the Overworld, one of its champions. He’d likely been training for years, but in far less oppressive conditions. _He seems pretty hell-bent on slicing my head off._

**_Aim at his shoulder._ **

**_Dodge right._ **

**_Then show him you’re a person, too._ **

****

As the command issued from Chat, Technoblade got his chance. He had to stop Dream from trying to kill him right away before he tried anything else. The hilt of his sword locked slightly under the gleaming blade of the axe, forcing the two into close quarters until the force of one side outweighed the other. He could hear a grunt from Dream as he tried to dislodge his weapon. Techno kept his blade still, kept them struggling, then said,

“Was I the only one who didn’t get the memo about the ‘not killing each other’ thing?”

His voice was scratched, ripped up, but still comprehensible. Dream’s shoulders tensed in surprise, and despite the fingerless gloves, his hands slipped slightly on the axe handle. The movement broke the lock Techno’s sword had on his adversary.

When that creepy smile came at him again, it wasn’t trying to kill. Instead, he shoved them into an easy back-and-forth block and hit, a simple exercise Techno had learned from the guards when he’d started training. It was meant to be a repetitive action that warmed your muscles up, got you in the rote mindset of defense and offense. As Techno had thought, Dream was smart. He was testing him, opening the potential for conversation, and putting on a show for the crowd. _Dangerous._

“What?” Came a strained mutter from underneath the mask. His axe came quickly, but Techno was able to react in turn easily, both his training and upgraded reflexes helping him out.

“Oh good, you’ll talk to me. They told me I couldn’t kill you," he stated breathlessly. 

A strange, suspicious wheeze of laughter. “What? Why not?”

“Dunno,” he breathed, then winced as his instincts took over and he almost swiped through Dream’s shoulder. The audience roared in glee. The man grunted, then attacked more fiercely, his boots kicking up some of the arena’s sand.

“Why would they keep a piglin from trying to fight? Isn’t that, like,” a lethal swing towards his chest, “what you all live for? Killing people?”

His heartbeat went from pounding like the drums of war to a rhythmic funeral march. Panic, dread-filled panic coursed through his veins, and Techno let his body take over for a moment. 

_I guess I really don’t look human anymore_ . _Maybe… maybe I’m not human anymore. Why do we want to leave this place again?_ The despair threatened to choke him, curling tight vines around his throat, but a mental nudge from Chat kept him focused.

**_Don’t falter, Atlas. Remember your task._ **

****

But it was a heartbeat too late. The axe, guided by Dream’s hand, spun around, and Techno felt a searing pain in his left arm. The scent of blood made his eyes water and his veins pulse. He stumbled, and a gasp from the crowd echoed about. The announcer exclaimed something about Dream’s skilled hit and mused whether Techno would retaliate or protect himself. He did neither, and instead forced his opponent into another series of trade-off hits and dodges.

“I’m not a—” He ducked, and Dream staggered forward with the missed momentum of his blow, mask slipping a bit to the side. “I’m not a piglin,” Techno grit out. He could see Dream’s mouth dip into a frown from where the mask had turned to reveal a bit of his face. The next swing was coming in fast, like the singing blade of an executioner. Before Chat had the chance to warn him, Techno leaned towards the axe.

Pain ricocheted down the side of his face, the weapon cutting through the leathery contraption strapped around his head into skin. Drops of red blood spilled out, strangely bright in the glowstone spotlights of the arena. Electric adrenaline iced through his body. Chat slammed into his head with alarm, trying to command him into control, into fixing his slip up. But Technoblade knew what he was doing.

Because as Dream pulled his arm back, his mouth dropped open in shock, as his porcelain grin was still crooked. Techno stared up at him as he staggered back to his feet, triumph pounding with his heart. Even though the majority of his face was still covered, he knew the warrior across from him saw it. Dream had cut through a slice of the leathery pig mask, revealing the human skin, the human face and nose and eyes underneath.

Dream had paused, his chest heaving. They couldn’t stay still for long, or the entire crowd would know, would see, and Techno would be as good as dead.

“Please,” he muttered, his face stinging. “They kidnapped me and they’ve been experimenting down here and I have a family in the Overworld, I’ve been trapped here—” he took a step forward, and Dream cautiously raised his weapon again at the movement, and he had to shove the words out of his mouth because he needed someone to know _someone had to know it was him and he’d lasted this long and still remembered his name and that he didn’t leave and he wasn’t dead and he wanted to go home—_

The crowd lulled in confusion, and he saw his opponent’s shoulders tense with urgency. He had a job to do too, and couldn’t risk the fight. But the way he moved to resume the battle was slow, like he was actually _listening_. The axe swung, and Techno raised his sword. This was his last chance before the fight had to end one way or another.

“My name is Technoblade. I-I’m—” their weapons met, and vibrations rattled his bruised hands. “I was the prince of the Antarctic Empire,” he saw Dream’s teeth clench, and he prayed that it wasn’t only his desperation that made that grimace seem like hesitation or understanding. His enhanced senses and reflexes were screaming at him to give in, to let himself vanish into the damning wind of combat. Animalistic instinct to survive kicked in. “Please tell someone. I can’t be forgotten without s—.”

Steel met steel. Time was up. The crowd exploded with glee as the two clashed in a blatantly forceful whirl of weapons. Dream turned from an opportunity to just another enemy, his own will and Chat’s fierce encouragement fighting to keep him alive. He remembered what the guards at the castle used to tell him: Go into the fight _believing_ you will win, then win it. Everything around him blurred; the only thing that existed was the weapon in his hand and the person trying to kill him and the blood half blinding him as it trickled out the long cut in his piglin mask.

At last, their skills truly met; before, Techno had to hold back, had to try and squeeze in as many words as he could. Now, it was a battle of gods. Dream was nimble and deadly quick, but each attack was anchored by the heavy weight of his axe. Techno’s moves were brutal yet graceful, some combination of the training he received growing up and the survival skills he’d learned from the ring and arena. He supposed that two hundred and thirty victories in literal hell taught you a thing or two.

Every dodge was a brush with Death, and each sweep of a weapon was an arc of his immortal scythe. Blood was hardly spilled, each too agile to let anything more than a small cut grace their skin. The ring of metal resounded louder than the audience’s roars. It was a true challenge. _Dream_ was a true challenge, with his painfully bright green clothes and unreadable mask. It was the most fun Technoblade had experienced since… a long time.

Chat was quick to keep him from enjoying it too much, because it seemed like Dream was fighting to kill—he hadn’t been told to hold off like Techno had, which was worrying. But he could win the fight without killing Dream; back in the ring, plenty of fights ended with a fighter being knocked unconscious. It was just like his fruitless escape plan: all he needed was an opening.

And Dream clearly hadn’t been expecting to battle someone like this, because the opening he found was a novice’s mistake. The masked man took one quick step too far forward, and Techno swept his own foot behind Dream’s ankle, brandishing his sword like a lance. When he went to step away from the edge of the weapon, he stumbled, and Techno’s trap made him fall on his back, flat on the ground.

Sand swirled up into the hazy hair, thick with sweat and blood and pure adrenaline. Techno panted, his pink hair hanging over one of his eyes, and leveled the blade to Dream’s throat. The axe lay a hair too far away from his adversary’s gloved hands. Technoblade had won. The crowd screamed for blood, and a bit of him did, too. But no way was he killing the only messenger he had, and no way was he sitting through hours of drug induced torture. Chat hummed in his head.

Dream’s face was tilted towards him, and he was panting for breath. He was hoisted on the back of his forearms, holding himself up a little. From what Techno could see, the teen genuinely looked shocked. There was a grunt, then a cough. “So? Do it.”

Technoblade frowned, which made his cuts rub against the pig mask. “Do what? I told you, they said I can’t kill you.” Then, lowly, he said, “and I _need your help._ ” The announcer was calling out something, and suddenly a new voice echoed about the cavern. “Keep fighting.”

Oh. So this fight was meant to be his death sentence. They couldn’t have just shot him up in private in his cell, no, they had to threaten him into not killing his opponent and bringing said opponent from the _Overworld_ just to beat him. Of course they’d want their money off of his last, greatest fight. Figures.

The world was a blur of glaring lights and shouts in his ears as he stepped back. If he didn’t kill Dream, they’d keep fighting, and if he did… he’d probably be done for. He would probably be tortured with the hallucinogenic injections worse than death and then left to bleed his suffering out in screams and dry tears. Better that he goes out honorably. Chat said nothing as he offered Dream a trembling hand, ready to resume. He’s too tired to go on like this. The audience fizzled to silence.

Dream stared at the outstretched hand, at the fingers mottled with bruises and blood. His head kept tilting to look up at the slit in the leathery pig mask that was still digging into Techno’s skull and his hand. Despite the grime and purpling discoloration from the fight, his hand was still undeniably human.

Techno braced himself for Dream to take his arm and stand and end his life with a fell swoop of his wicked axe. He’d prepared for it like he was prepared for everything: by embracing it. This does not seem like such a bad way to go out.

**_Techno, I-_**

He pushed Chat out. The world had been dark and starless for too long. He couldn’t accept the alternative to the sweet, siren call of death. He couldn’t.

His hand hovers between them and he thinks that time stilled. But then Dream pushed his mask up until Techno could see the freckles scattered on his cheeks and nose and eyes. They were emerald green, a rare color in the deep crimson Nether. He had a strange look on his face, and his searching irises glanced at Technoblade’s features. He looked like he was seventeen, maybe eighteen. Techno wondered how old he looked to Dream. A curious, slanted grin that was nothing like his smiling mask tugged his lips. “You win,” he proclaimed, loud enough in the thick silence that everyone had to hear. Then, under his breath “GG, _Technoblade_.”

A stumble backward. Techno blinked in surprise, his mind reeling with disbelief and some horrible thing that felt like hope.

**_It appears we have made ourselves an ally._**

****

The arena exploded with jeers and jubilant shouts, the announcer proclaiming _The Blood God_ as the winner. It was funny, because _Technoblade_ hadn’t won a thing since he’d been down here. It was always the Blood God.

Dream got to his feet and they shook hands. His mask was carefully put back into place, flecked with blood. There’s a tight squeeze from Dream’s gloved fingers, and their eyes locked for a moment. He could hear the unspoken words, and the light feeling of them made him lightheaded:

_I’ll help you._

But the piglins and nether creatures watching weren’t satisfied with this ending, screaming as the announcer stated bewilderedly that the match is over. They wanted blood. They _demanded_ blood. _Blood for the Blood God,_ they cried, a chthonic mantra that lured something out in Techno as he watches the gate close behind the masked figure as he leaves. No one came out to take Techno back to his cell, and he remembered that they most likely wanted him dead by Dream’s hand so they could get whatever benefit Dream’s benefactor promised them to give their champion a free, unjust win.

**_If we were supposed to die so they could get money… what happens now?_**

****

And the anchorman tried to call for quiet, and they announced that the Blood God wasn’t done just yet. Techno was bruised and exhausted, his arm was still bleeding from where Dream’s axe cut him and his face stinging, yet the adrenaline coursed through his body with the chant; he’d never had the chance to fight anyone so skilled before. It is not fair. But then again, when has anything ever been far in hell? Would they just keep making him fight until he dropped? Would they take him out and kill him or torture him? What could they throw at him that’d be harder to beat than _Dream_?

It doesn’t matter, because suddenly Chat wanted blood, too. His sword doesn’t feel as heavy in his arm.

But then he’s answered a moment later, and Chat stopped gearing him up for combat.

Booming into the empty space above, “Now, the Blood God will face a favorite in the less _civilized_ fighting rings, for those of you who came from the cage fights! From the left gate, I present to you, _THE MONSTER!_ ”

_No._

. . .

Time froze, just for a second, and suddenly Techno was in the castle at age seven. He opened a pair of great, pale blue doors with a dramatic tug, and stormed inside, his little cloak flaring behind him. He threw a thick book down onto the carpet, startling a surprised Philza, who was holding a tiny Tommy and leaning back in a rocking chair.

Techno pointed at the book. “Dadza, _what!_ ”

Phil shushed him, pointing at the sleeping tuft of blonde hair that was his little brother.

The younger version of himself winced, then in a hushed whisper, demanded, “I’ve been reading the book you gave me, and it’s going horribly! The hero literally just _dies_! _WHAT!? HEH?_ You promised me it was a good book!” He pouted, crossing his arms. 

Phil shifted his great black wings, and gave the crown prince a knowing smile. In a low voice, he asked, “Have you finished it yet?”

He frowned, tugging on his short braid. “Well, no, but—”

The king shook his head, and walked over to set Tommy in a crib. Outside, stars sprinkled light through the windows, and the moon spilled in in great pools. Philza picked up the volume from the carpet, and placed it gently into Techno’s hands with shining eyes. “Sometimes things have to get worse before they get better, Tech. Just keep reading. The good guys might just surprise you, mate; don’t worry too much. It will work out in the end.”

Techno spent the next hour speeding through the novella, and was indeed shocked by the turn of events where the hero was brought to life once more and freed from his cage, vanquishing the evil demon and saving the day. Even though it was happy, the ending never really sat well with him.

. . .

  
  


The memory vanished, and time rumbled back into the present.

Technoblade didn’t want to keep reading anymore. It didn't matter that Dream might be able to help. Things have been getting worse far too long for them to get better, and the good guys were _definitely_ not the ones surprising him these days. The story books lied about how often heroes won; that’s why he always loved mythology so much. It was brutal. Honest. Realistic. Myths didn’t always have a happy ending, just like in real life.

And just like real life, they were full of monsters.

Twisted-looking skin and scratched up flesh that was more scars than not. Starved ribs and sharp teeth. Muscles riddled with injection bruises that Techno knew all too well. Black scales around his temple that looked like enderman markings. Jagged, serrated tusks. Hooves blackened into shapes that mimicked claws. Haunted eye bags and the strange metal contraption around a jaw drilled full of screws like it was being kept from unhinging. A dangerous hum in the air growing louder as it got closer. Horrifically, brutally intelligent eyes that looked crazed, that looked feral.

**_Dear god._**

****

Technoblade almost laughed. _There are no gods here, Chat._

The Blood God took a single step backward as the _thing_ that used to be Carl stepped into the arena.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd say sorry but I'm not <3
> 
> Time to go wait and dread the lore :D ; - ;
> 
> THANK YOU TO PEANUT_BRAINS FOR BEING THE BEST BETA READER EVER AND GIVING ME LOTS OF COOL IDEAS TO WORK WITH <3 <3 <3
> 
> Feel free to join the discord to join the discussion :) the link is below! If you liked, please leave a comment! They make my day! Leave any reactions, questions, or theories below, I'd love to see 'em!

**Author's Note:**

> go check out my other fics if you enjoyed!
> 
> If you want to talk about any of my fanfics, share fanart of them, talk about the dream smp, or just hang out, join my discord! It's brand new and I've never managed a disc before so pls be gentle ;3
> 
> https://discord.gg/q9Vm5wnbF7


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